


It’s in My Roots, in My Veins, in My Blood (and I Stain Every Heart that I Use to Heal the Pain)

by EmKomSkaikru



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: ANGSTY ANGST ANGST, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, Drama, Drinking & Talking, F/F, F/M, Guns, Kidnapping, Marijuana, Moments of Disgusting Fluffiness, Sex, Talking, basically a romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6994864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmKomSkaikru/pseuds/EmKomSkaikru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke disappears after graduation. </p><p>Five years later, she knocks on her mother’s door and dislodges chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> Title is straight jacked from Adele’s song “River Lea,” and I definitely don’t own that melodious masterpiece. So, this isn’t what I usually write. This also is pretty dark? Sort of. 
> 
> Be warned this work contains mentions of death, violence, and ill-advised methods of coping.

Five years ago, Clarke graduated from college with a B.A. in Fine Arts. Five years ago, she was full of innocence and naive cliches like love was a for sure thing and the world was an overwhelmingly good place. Nothing truly bad had ever happened to her blue-eyed, blonde-haired self, but she was floating in a cloud that burst. The universe had a thirst to change her fortunate luck all at once because the day after her gradution, her mother, travelling in a separate car, hit her father in an head-on collision. 

Both were headed to Clarke's graduation party. 

One survived. One didn’t. 

And Clarke never did make it to her own graduation party. 

Upon a jaw-clenching call from her mother’s colleague, Clarke turned the car around, racing to the hospital as quickly as she could. But she was too late; he was already gone and they were all scarred for life. Her father was dead, but her mother was conscious and covered in colorful bruises and wouldn’t stop crying.

There was an unnervingly unemotional resident, her mother's haunted gaze, burn marks, detached limbs, and a decidedly unpeaceful haunting her father’s face. Twisted around so horribly on a hospital-grade gurney, the corpse of Jake wasn't like it should been. Simply enough he wasn't her _dad_ anymore. He was something destroyed. Something made into something else. Something Clarke tried and failed to recognize. 

After driving and settling her sobbing mother-- Clarke couldn’t think with the noise-- into her bedroom (the one Abby had shared with the thing on the gurney), she ran home to get clothes. But she saw Lexa there, and fled. In a numbness she felt was unparalleled, Clarke walked around the dark city of D.C. for eight hours. At the end of those eight hours, Clarke made arrangements for her mother to be looked after for the next few weeks. After that was accomplished, she called her landlord to let her know she was breaking the lease.

Clarke went back to her apartment in the middle of the night, and though deflated decorations sat on her kitchen table as well as signs of a party occurring despite her absence, it was empty. She proceeded to cram every possession she didn’t discard into her shitty Volvo and vanished from D.C. without so much as a note. She drove, in fact, for four straight days until she physically couldn’t anymore as the Pacific ocean was stopping her. She found herself numbly settling into a sunny sea-side town in California. 

She assimilated, worked, painted.

She went insane a thousand times over.

But the motions were easy. Finding an apartment was easy. Starting a new life was easy. And throwing her phone into the big trembling ocean was downright welcomed. Clarke was bright, and surprisingly resilient given the last twenty-four hours in Washington. For a long time, she tried to let the strive for more, the need to contribute (something great), fill the hole left. 

But it never really did. 

Clarke wasn't able to regain the feeling of normalcy. Somehow, this place wasn’t her home. It was good to leave her hometown, important to get away and see who she was without everyone unintentionally informing her, but she felt like a liar here. These people weren't _her_ people. And she was often struck with this fact when she sat on a bench in the middle of a mall. There were different kinds of people in all varying stages of life walking around her. Statistically, Clarke should been happy with some of them (and she was sometimes), but usually even when she was with people, she was somehow still _alone_. 

It was just that the weight of the past was so heavy that it dragged her down constantly. Of course, she wasn’t incompetent; she made friends, obtained a surfer boyfriend, but she couldn't fill the hole that had originally cracked her chest in two. She always thought she would get her shit together and go back after a month or two, apologize and try to move forward, but she kept making excuses for herself. There was always more work or another painting or some too convenient reason.

The real reason was that she couldn't bear to face them. She couldn't stand the thought of being judged for abandoning her mother and Lexa and everyone.

And so, that was how Clarke let five years pass.

 

Five years later, Clarke’s got a suitcase in one hand and flowers in the other to do just what she couldn’t bear before. The flowers won’t be enough. They could never be enough, and to be perfectly honest, she’s not sure if anything ever will be.

Because she didn’t _just_ leave. 

What she did was more destructive-- like dematerializing, like _evaporating_ into thin air after a tragedy that had taken ahold of her world and shook it so hard that everyone close to her stumbled. 

She knows what she’s done, and mostly how she’s done it, is unforgivable. 

It’s possible home isn’t still here. It’s probable time hasn’t stopped, or slowed, and like a forest in the aftermath of a fire, things have grown over, filled the places she used to fit. Her people, now other people altogether, have likely forgotten about Clarke and her grand disappearing act. 

She takes a deep breath.

Leaving D.C. was the dumbest, bravest, most reckless decision of her life, but for a moment, she considers the possibility that coming back might be the stupidest.

Clarke knocks on the door.

Her mother takes her time to answer the door, and when she does, it’s in a pretty dress Clarke doesn’t recognize. She’s aged gracefully, still beautiful and austere.

“Hi,” Clarke says. 

Abby stares at her like a mirage, like a dream, and she looks away. 22 year old Clarke doesn't understand how much this hurt her mother. 27 year old Clarke already knows. She knows that she ruined everything.

“Clarke?” Abby asks uncertainly-- Clarke thinks she’s afraid this isn’t real. 

She’s hit with memories as she hears her mother’s voice, and admits, “I don’t even know what to say.” Clarke hesitantly offers her the flowers. They’re a shield.

Abby takes them automatically. “Clarke,” she repeats, clutching them to her chest. 

“I guess... I need to say I’m sorry,” Clarke replies. “Blaming you for what happened to dad… that was sick. It wasn’t right. You lost your husband, too.”

Abby tears up, and says, “Baby, none of that matters,” like she’s been saying it for a long time and Clarke just hasn't been paying attention. She lurches toward Clarke, and Clarke crosses the distance to hug her. The flowers-- the big, lazy lilies from down the street her mother adores-- get crushed between them.

Abby cries into her shoulder, and Clarke goes off along with her. She thinks how insane they must look crying hysterically together in the front door, but that doesn’t change the fact it's happening. 

“At first, we didn’t know if you were…” Abby shakes her head. “I knew you weren’t.” 

“Yeah,” Clarke says limply. She isn’t sure how to apologize for how big of a mistake leaving had been, how much damage has been caused by the way she did, so she doesn’t try to.

But she does take a deep breath to try to explain. ”I ran. I ran because-- I didn’t want to-- I couldn’t see that happen to anyone I carried about again," she admits, wiping liquid off her face. "But I was stupid. I did it... I cared. I cared again and it happened again.” 

“What happened again?” Abby asks, pulling back.

“Finn, my boyfriend… he died.” Clarke lets out an embarassing sob. “It was a car accident, too.” 

“Oh, Clarke,” Abby says, immediately wrapping her back into a warm embrace.

“It keeps happening to me, mom, no matter where I go or who I'm with.” 

Abby sighs, and looks ten years older. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.” She hugs her, cradles her, and Clarke leans into her, taking some catharsis from this moment. “You’re due some extremely good luck, baby.”

“I don't deserve it. I’ve ruined every relationship I’ve ever had,” Clarke whispers. “I destroy people.”

“No, you don’t, Clarke," Abby returns, fierce. "Life is what destroys people. You’ve made mistakes and put me and your friends through hell, but I love you no matter what. And I’m sure they feel the same.”

“I’ll never be able to fix what I’ve done,” Clarke says, eyes hardening as she looks away. 

Clarke looks older, more mature, but Abby doesn’t recognize this part of her. “We’re alright, okay? I love you and always will,” her mother insists. “I’m just glad you’re here now.” 

“I hope I’m running in the right direction this time,” Clarke mutters. Her eyes glisten in the midday sun. It’s a D.C. summer through and through, and swampy hot-- so familiar. Full of memories. 

Abby picks up her bag. “No more running. You’ll stay. You’re home now.” 

“I’m going to stay,” Clarke agrees, saying it out loud so she’s accountable, and Abby puts an arm around her shoulders and leads her into the house. She feels like an unstable child, but in a lot of ways this is a healthy thing. The house is just like she remembers, clean, green, and sterile (but in a comforting way-- it’s hard to explain). 

But there’s an extra man standing just inside the parlor. 

“This is Marcus... my husband,” Abby says, smiling at him. “Marcus, this is Clarke.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Clarke,” Marcus says, and Clarke thinks absently that he has kind eyes.

She freezes for just a second, but she isn't some surly teenager and her mother deserves this. She forces herself to slowly smile. “You too.” She glances at Abby, who is still looking at Marcus with a smile. “Thank you for making her happy.” 

Too bad my father isn't around to do it anymore, she thinks bitterly, smile ending.

Clarke is forced to eat far too much, and she goes to sleep later with a bloated stomach and surprisingly quiet mind. Everything is still so much the same-- but with some slight new twist. It’s like she’s living in an alternative reality. It's very unsettling.

And confusing.

 

Clarke knows everyone else won’t go as smoothly as the first meeting. 

Raven is angry, so angry, when Clarke answers the door the next day in the pouring rain. Her hair is matted to her face, and her mascara is splotchy, nose bright red from the cold. She looks like a tiny drowned ( determined) rat in her bulky raincoat. 

“Abby called,” she says accusingly-- like Clarke is still avoiding her after all this time.

Which: maybe she is a bit. It’s a lot-- of people-- to deal with, to mend.

“Raven,” Clarke says, because that’s kind of the only thing she can bring herself to say.

“Clarke, you’re an asshole,” Raven bites out, all sass and ready to go to town.

“You look so good pregnant,” Clarke replies.

Raven stops in her tracks to scrunch up her eyebrows. “I know.”

Clarke giggles, and Raven breaks her stony face and snorts, but it’s gone a second later.

“Come in,” Clarke says.

Raven does, and Clarke offers her a towel, but she shakes her head. “Where did you go?” she asks, leaning against the door like she isn’t sure this is even worth her time. 

“I went to California,” Clarke says.

“Do you regret it?” 

Her tone causes Clarke’s face to fall. “To the bottom of my heart, I regret the way I did it.” 

“But you don't regret leaving?” Raven retorts.

“I needed to leave.”

Raven stares at her. “And now you need to come back? It was super shitty. No phone call… god, you could have sent a fucking carrier pigeon and that would have been enough,” Raven adds, voice rising. “We have no idea where you are-- and we’re so worried-- and then you just show up? Who does that? This is the digital age. It's 2016. Why the fuck aren’t you on Facebook? Why didn’t you pick up the damn phone? I must have called you a thousand freaking times.” 

Clarke winces. “I know I fucked up... but I’m done running. I’m here to stay.”

Raven fixes her with a glare. “Are you really? Because I don’t want to be your friend otherwise,” she declares. “It’s not acceptable to disappear for five years. You missed my wedding. You missed everything.” 

Clarke feels tears prickling behind her eyes. Her best friend. Her wedding. She thinks she's a monster, but instead of communciating that, she says, “I know. But I’m staying. I have a job interview the day after tomorrow.” 

Raven looks surprised. “That was quick.” 

“Well, I’m impulsive-- not stupid.”

“You can be both,” Raven informs her. 

“I know,” Clarke says with serious eyes. She smiles at her stomach. “Who made you pregnant?” 

Raven turns red and scowls. 

“That bad, huh?” Clarke murmurs. 

“No. It was-- it was Anya,” Raven bites out. 

Clarke raises her eyebrows, steps back, and says, “Huh.” She lets out a lengthy exhale.

“You don’t have a monopoly on the whole family, Clarke.” 

“Right,” Clarke breathes, blocking out a million memories. “Right, I know. We just always said...” 

“You would be the first to get married,” Raven fills in, and Clarke nods. “Clarke,” she adds, looking guilty for a second but persevering through it, “Lexa has moved on. We all have. It's what you have to do.”

“Everyone has moved on,” Clarke replies firmly, not wanting to hear anymore. It really shouldn’t hurt this bad to hear what she already knew.

“Have you? Really?” 

Clarke bites her lip. “I don’t know.” 

“Listen, Clarke, I want you in my life... and Abby told me about your boyfriend and that is so horrible, I'm sorry… but you need therapy. You’re fucked up, babe," Raven says gently, "and I understand why completely… but you need to learn how to stop running. You can't control what happens. It isn’t your fault. It never was.”

Tears slip down Clarke’s face, and she wipes them away. “I’ve been to therapy, Rae, lots of it. Actually, my therapist is who convinced me to come back here after Finn.”

“You must have had a good one,” Raven says seriously. 

Clarke had the best. She’d had a therapist who’d convinced her running away wouldn’t fixed anything, and that it wouldn’t fix it now. Only she could fix it. Clarke nods. She can salvage things. She focuses on Raven's stomach again-- it’s big, she has to be near ready for the baby to burst out. 

“Anya, huh?” she asks.

Raven smirks. “Yes, Anya.” 

Clarke gets a twinkle in her eye. “I always said-- ” 

“I know what you said. You were right, okay,” Raven interrupts. “She’s still hot, god.”

Clarke smiles. “So are you. I think it’s adorable. What do you have in there?” 

“A boy,” Raven says, and when she smiles, it’s wider than Clarke has ever seen it. 

“I’m so incredibly happy for you,” Clarke replies genuinely.

Raven starts crying, and they hug. She pulls away and slaps Clarke’s shoulder then her own stomach. “Stupid pregnancy hormones always making me fucking cry.” 

“I know... but I can’t wait to meet him.”

If you’ll let me, Clarke adds silently.

Raven stares at her wide-eyed. “Will you be at the birth?” 

“Me? You really want me to after…?” Clarke trails off, frowning. 

“Yes,” Raven says firmly. “I don’t have a mother or anything, not letting Abby the Hottie in there no offense, so I would really love it if you were…” 

“Oh my god, yes.” Clarke replies. “I can’t believe you’d ask. Yes, of course. It’s… it’s an honor.” 

“Good. Do you have a cell phone? You know what that is, right? You can call anyone with one and they even hook up to the worldwide internet,” Raven states meanly.

Clarke smiles. “Yes. Different number now.” She writes it down on some stationary at a little desk near the door, and shoves it toward Raven.

“Okay, we need to set up a biweekly tea or something,” Raven says, accepting it and reaching through her extremely large bag for her phone. She programs the number in, and calls it. Clarke’s phone lights up in her front pocket. “Just making sure,” she says mildly, disconnecting. “Do Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 8am work? I actually walked here on my lunch break, so I need to go soon.” 

“Yes! Where do you work?” Clarke asks automatically.

Raven smiles proudly. “Global Engineering.” 

Clarke returns her smile. “That’s what you always wanted, Rae. Are you taking off for the baby?” 

Raven shakes her head. “No. Well, for the birth, but Anya is going to take off for awhile after. She co-owns a surveillance firm, so she’s going to work from home.” 

Clarke nods. “Sounds convenient. Well... I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday?” 

“I sit by the window,” Raven reminds her.

“I know, I know. You sit in the third seat from the backdoor. Always.”

“Right.” Raven laughs. “You’re an asshole, but I love you, Clarke. I never really stopped.”

“I never stopped either,” Clarke says. 

They hug. 

 

Only three hours after Raven comes, Octavia shows up towing along Lincoln and a toddler-sized Lincoln. Clarke has to do a double take as they all stride past her into the house, looking between the two carbon copies in vehement surprise. The only noticeable difference between the two is in Little Lincoln’s cloudy green/grey eyes. And then Clarke realizes they’re Octavia’s eyes.

“Take mommy’s purse with you, please,” Octavia says, handing it off to Little Lincoln and taking off her earrings. Little Lincoln tosses the purse to the floor with a giggle. Octavia ignores it.

The real Lincoln glances at her and says, “Hi, Clarke,” pretty coldly before settling his eyes on Octavia. “What are you doing, O?” he asks.

“I’m going to kick her ass like she deserves,” Octavia replies. “Raven’s too pregnant to do it.” 

“In front of our son?” Lincoln asks quietly.

Octavia’s eyes flick down to Little Lincoln, and she pauses, slipping her earrings in her pocket before shrugging. “It's time he knew how to kick someone’s ass,” she retorts.

Clarke isn’t even offended, but she’s definitely not letting Octavia use her as an example for her son and tells her as much. “You’re not going to kick my ass, Octavia, because I’ll have to kick your ass back. And I refuse to touch a _mother_ ,” she drawls.

Octavia huffs, eyes narrowing as they flick to her. “I’m really kicking your ass now, Clarke. Don’t hate me cause you ain’t me.” She cracks her knuckles. 

“I really thought your comebacks would get better with age,” Clarke replies, face breaking out into a grin, which only seems to enrage Octavia, who takes a step forward. Clarke squeals, bluffing, and moves away. “You haven’t even heard my apology yet!” she adds. 

“You can grovel while I’m beating you up,” Octavia declares, stomping up to her. 

Clarke runs to the door. Upon looking over her shoulder to see a pursuing Octavia, she dashes out of the house. Little Lincoln and Big Lincoln step onto the porch to watch as Octavia chases her around the lawn like they’re silly teenage goons again. It's ridiculous.

“Listen,” Clarke yells while she’s running, already out of breath, “I’m really sorry about what I did. There’s no sugar-coating it. It was…” she almost trips, and spits out the word, ”...horrible.” 

“Who does that?” Octavia yells back at her. “You missed the birth of my first child!” 

“I know. Lincoln’s a great choice by the way, and your son is beautiful. I'm a real fucking asshole,” Clarke replies, darting behind the giant fountain in her mother’s yard. She has always hated it, but it had been the meeting place of most of her teenage years.

“Yeah, well, you said it.” Octavia deflates a millimeter, and there’s just hurt across her face, which is way, way worse, Clarke thinks, than getting her ass kicked.

“Octavia... I made a mistake.” 

Octavia rolls her eyes. “No shit. So, you’re just going to come home and try to act like it never happened?” Her anger is palpable. “Pick up where you left off?” 

“No, I can’t do that obviously,” Clarke replies. “But I want to be part of your life.”

“You were, Clarke! And then you leave, and I get a phone call from Raven telling me you returned _five years later_. You didn't even have the decency to call me yourself. Was running away from your problems easier? Was California fun? Everything you dreamed?” Octavia spits.

“Lackluster, honestly. I didn’t realize you only get one chance to have friends like I did.” 

“Notice the past tense.” 

Clarke stares at the ground, and sighs. “If we’re done, why did you come here, O?” 

Octavia shrugs, angrily putting her hands in the air towards the sky. “I have no clue. I wanted to kick your ass, but you’re too much of an inconsiderate asshole to let me.” 

“Fine,” Clarke huffs, walking up to her. She takes Octavia’s hand, curling it into a fist, and raises it to her face. “If you need to do it, kick my ass. This is your one chance.” 

Octavia uncurls her fingers, hesitating, but then slaps her just once. It doesn't really hurt compared to the drama of the past twenty-four hours, but it is jarring and her eyes water despite her wishes.

“I deserved better, Clarke,” Octavia hisses. “We were best friends. If you would have let us, we all would have been there for you. You’re a coward, Clarke, and you're _so_ selfish. Let’s go, Lincoln.” Clarke watches as she walks to their car, a fancy tinted Jaguar, and slams the door shut. 

Clarke's quiet tears turn into noisy tears, and soon, she’s openly sobbing. Everything Octavia said is true. She’s about to turn around, escape the giant fishbowl of her mother’s front lawn, when she feels an arm on her shoulder. It's Lincoln. He’s looking at her with a measure of compassion.

“She still loves you, Clarke. Give her some time,” Lincoln says kindly. He always was a gentleman, and Clarke’s glad Octavia picked him as her husband.

“Yeah,” Clarke replies weakly, concealing her tears as best she can in front of the toddler that waddles up beside him. “Sorry for… this in front of…” She gestures to the child.

“Darwin,” Lincoln says, picking him up. “After my father. He’s two, so luckily he doesn't understand any of this quite yet. He thinks you’re playing.”

“I wish we were. He’s gorgeous,” Clarke breathes, mustering the strength to look at Darwin. He smiles back. “Thank you for coming, Lincoln. It was good to see you all. I appreciate it.”

Lincoln studies her. “She’ll see, Clarke. Sorry she slapped you."

"It was her free shot," Clarke replies, shrugging. 

Lincoln nods. "Say goodbye, Darwin.”

“B-bye,” Darwin whispers. Lincoln laughs while walking away, and even Clarke manages to crack a smile through the tears as she heads inside.

 

When the doorbell rings the next day, Clarke flinches. She thought she would have the time to seek her people out, but so far they’ve come first (and screaming) every time. And then her mother periodically looked at her that morning like she was memorizing her face in case she decides to disappears again. 

But Clarke’s done disappearing.

“Princess,” Bellamy greets. He’s brought her daffodils. 

He’s after Octavia, but that was always his style-- nonchalant, last minute (really just late). He’s changed remarkably little, continuing to play the part of the charming bachelor he created in his early twenties. He isn’t angry, which Clarke appreciates in a lot of different ways.

“Bell. God, I never told you, but I _really_ hate that nickname,” Clarke replies.

“Sorry. Just Clarke then. How's it hanging?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, and laughs. “I missed you.”

“Then why’d you go?” he asks, and his face is unnaturally serious. “What happened, Clarke?” 

Surprised he’s asking, Clarke begins to say, “My dad…”

He holds up a hand, and steps into the parlor. “I know that, but did anything else...?” 

Clarke pauses. It's a follow-up question no one but her therapist has bothered to ask her. They sit on the bench by the door, and she takes a deep breath. Other than her shrink, she hasn't told anyone, but maybe it will help, maybe it will explain if she does. 

“After my dad… after the accident, I came back to my apartment and Lexa was there.” Clarke closes her eyes. After all this time, she still hates reliving this part. “It was after the party I guess. Maybe she was trying to clean or-- but she was kissing someone else. Monroe, actually. On my couch.”

“Lexa _cheated_?” Bellamy asks. He and Lexa have never been close-- or at least, they weren't when Clarke knew them better-- but he looks genuinely shocked.

“Yeah,” Clarke admits. “Though how many people really end up with their first love?”

“Not a lot,” Bellamy counters. “But she was devastated when you left. For a long time.”

Clarke makes a noncommittal noise.

Bellamy whistles, silent until he takes in Clarke’s face. “Sorry, I… I'm having trouble processing the new info. Just a shock, I guess,” he says, and Clarke nods. “Can I ask… does she know you’re here?” 

“I don't think so?” Clarke says, and then shakes her head. “But my mom has called half of D.C. already... so I don't know. Raven or Anya might have told her too.”

Bellamy nods. “Well, I'm happy you're here. You here to stay?” 

“I'm staying,” Clarke says, and it's ironic because every time she says it, she means it a bit more sincerely. She _is_ staying. She is _choosing_ to stay.

“You gonna stay with your mom? Not a bad pad to crash in.”

Clarke looks around. It isn’t, but she can’t stay with her mom forever. She needs to start a life here. 

“I’m thinking about getting a little loft or something,” she says eventually.

“Nice. I can help you out with that. I’ve got a nice little baby with a view of the White House.”

“Wow... really?” Clarke asks, and then Bellamy is launching into his life and all of his adventures over the past five years. He's had quite a few of them.

After thirty minutes, even though it's 6pm on a Wednesday, he convinces her to go to the neighborhood bar down the street. 

She goes upstairs to slip on a little black dress that makes her feel confident, and then they walk there. 

Catching up like this is nice.

It’s _right_.

 

And then the inevitable finally happens. 

It turns out Bellamy has dragged her to a _sports bar_. People are roaring all around them over some game Clarke can hardly pay attention to. She had put on a little black dress for a bunch of screaming, cheap beer, and TV. She supposes there are worse things.

Bellamy hands her another beer.

“I don’t think I should have another beer,” Clarke mutters, dizzy and trying to focus on the bar counter. There are only two empty bottles in front of her.

“Yes, you should," Bellamy retorts. "This is for old times sake, Clarke. God, you're a lightweight now. Your house is a five minute walk away.” 

Clarke snorts, but accepts the beer. “You’re an asshole. I’m still in my twenties.” 

“I turn thirty next year,” Bellamy says, and Clarke’s eyes widen. 

“Now that’s old,” she counters.

“Don’t remind me,” he says sadly. 

“Do you regret not having anyone?” she asks.

“Do you?” 

It stings a little. It probably stung when she asked it too, she realizes. She’s sussed out already that no one has told him about Finn, so she isn’t offended. “No,” Clarke says, and she’s not really sure if she means it or not. “I don’t regret what I’ve done. Just how I did it.” 

Bellamy laughs. “I feel the same sometimes. I always thought you would be different, though.” 

“You mean with…” Clarke gulps her beer abruptly. 

Bellamy nods, and thinks better of going down that avenue. He says something that makes her laugh and she forgets. Clarke’s still laughing when she looks at the door. There’s been a steady stream of people going through that door, but something about the extended way it jingles as it swings open catches her attention.

She sees Lincoln first, and searches for Octavia, but only finds Anya. It happens so quickly. They shift. 

Lexa.

After all of this time and distance, Clarke finally sees Lexa-- but thankfully Lexa doesn’t see her.

Clarke turns around, smile flattening into a frantic frown. She knows she’s hiding, she knows and it’s horrible, but she can’t see Lexa _like this_ after all these years. Because in her mere second beer-hazed glimpse of the girl, Lexa is still… unnervingly perfect. And she still has that goddamn face-- quiet and hard and tender.

That face makes Clarke’s heart race. 

She focuses on Bellamy. “Why in the hell did you bring me here?” she hisses. She puts her hand on her heart and tries to will it to calm down. She feels sick.

Bellamy makes a face of confusion, but then his eyes lift over his shoulder and he grimaces into the beer he’s suddenly lifting to his face. When he’s done, he looks more concerned and mutters, “They don’t come here on the weekdays. They come for basketball.” 

“Why the hell would you bring me to where they hang out?” she snaps. “Where all of you hang out?” she adds, knowing she guessed correctly at Bellamy’s expression.

“It’s a Wednesday! I really didn’t think they would ever show up. They never do,” Bellamy says, becoming quieter as if they’re approaching.

They can’t be approaching.

Clarke closes her eyes, and grips onto the bar, the nearest something hard to hold onto. She turns. She turns back much more quickly.

They _are_ approaching.

“Out of all the bars in Washington D.C., you bring me to this one?” Clarke asks quietly.

“It was closest to your house,” Bellamy protests. “Hey Lincoln. Uh…” 

“Hey, Bell,” Lincoln says. “Who is your friend--” 

“It’s Clarke,” Clarke says, spinning around in her chair. She’d had her hair up earlier, and she has shorter hair now with pink highlights, so she understands why Lincoln wouldn’t recognize her from the back. She takes a sip of beer for strength. “To answer your question.”

Lincoln looks like he’s unknowingly made the worst decision of his life. Anya is directly beside him, and her incredulous face and frozen hand are hovering over Bellamy’s back. They all look at each other silently.

Until Lexa steps forward from somewhere behind Lincoln and asks, wide-eyed, “Clarke?”

Their eyes meet, and Clarke can feel every hair on her body standing on end. “I’m going to go,” she decides, grabbing her jacket. “Bellamy is an idiot, and you all clearly have like a thing here, and I don’t-- I _did not_ mean to come here. I didn’t know.”

“I’ll walk you home, Clarke,” Bellamy says, chugging his beer.

“No… I need some air to clear my head, but thank you. Enjoy the game,” Clarke replies far more graciously than she feels towards him at the moment to be honest. She kisses his cheek, and offers her seat to Lincoln, who sits down with that dumb look on his face still. She nods at Anya, who stares at her like she’s something that has just been scraped off her shoe, and then she realizes she has to pass Lexa to get to the door. 

She gives Lexa a very wide berth.

But they still manage to share another glance under shitty lighting. Clarke looks away quickly, because Lexa is breathtakingly attractive, timeless somehow, and she has a new appreciation for dressing well. She's an acutely stabbing reminder of all Clarke once held and lost. 

Clarke keeps moving, and the fresh air outside makes her gasp as what just happened sinks in. If only Bellamy wasn’t such a thoughtless idiot. Why in the hell would he think it was okay to bring her here? She shrugs on her jacket and pulls it tighter around her. 

D.C. is bustling, never does stop, and she wants to melt into the sidewalk as she hustles away.

“Clarke!” someone calls.

Clarke doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Go away,” she whispers, neither turning nor stopping.

“Clarke!” Lexa shouts again. It’s louder, and a moment later a hand rips her backward.

“What?” Clarke asks frostily.

Lexa looks stumped at that question, and swallows tensely. “You’re back?” she counters.

Clarke nods, not trusting her voice.

“When did you come back?” Lexa asks. She scrunches her nose up in confusion.

“Three days ago,” Clarke replies.

“No one told me. Why?” 

“Why did nobody tell you?” 

Lexa shakes her head. “Why did you come back?” 

“It’s a long story.” Clarke looks away. 

“Did you not like California?” Lexa asks, but then looks like she shouldn’t have.

“How’d you know I was in California?” 

Lexa looks away this time. “I run a surveillance company, Clarke. Your mother was desperate.” 

“This whole time you two knew where I was?” Clarke questions in disbelief.

Lexa nods. 

“And neither of you thought to bring me back?” Clarke mutters, holding her head. After everything that’s happened, she really shouldn’t be saying that-- it isn’t Lexa’s responsibility after all anymore-- but the beers have loosened her tongue and made her flush.

“I thought you didn’t want to be brought back,” Lexa replies stiffly. “Abby said you’d come back when you were ready. She’s waited. For years.” She sighs and then declares, “I’ll walk you home.”

Clarke stares at her. She's shivering, and Lexa notices, because she drapes her jacket over Clarke's shoulders a moment later. It's an expensive piece, and Lexa's familiar heady scent, the same after all these years, is all over it. She sighs, and clutches it closer, and vows that what is about to happen is entirely Lexa’s fault. It’s a despicable habit, but things with Lexa have always uncontrollably boiled to a head, always tended to come to fruition on public streets for everyone to hear. 

“You cheated on me, Lexa,” Clarke says steadily. It’s been a million goddamn years, and it shouldn’t matter still, but it _does_. Maybe it always did. Maybe this is why she didn’t want to come back. This has always been something that needed to be said. 

“I cheated on you?” Lexa repeats.

Clarke grows uncomfortable at the way it’s phrased as a question. “You know exactly what you did,” she snaps, but then her face sinks. She’s tired. Doesn’t want to do this right now. “I saw you,” she adds, grimacing.

Lexa tilts her head like she’s heard Clarke wrong. “I never cheated on you, Clarke.” 

Clarke really wishes she would stop saying her name. “You definitely cheated on me,” she retorts. “Please don’t lie. I saw what happened-- and with Monroe of all girls. _Monroe_.” 

Lexa squints at her, unreadable, then relaxes. “Well, it was forever ago, but I’m still 100% sure that Monroe just vomited on my shirt. And then I gave her mouth to mouth.” She winces as if remembering, but she has to be lying out of her ass.

“Oh, please. That’s not even believable,” Clarke says, turning away to walk the opposite way. 

“Me making out with Monroe is believable?” Lexa calls.

Clarke shrugs then flips her the finger over her head. She stomps toward an unknown destination and replays their interaction over and over. Lexa may be a cheater, but as far as Clarke knows, she never was a liar. The contrast perplexes her now. 

She turns a corner, and catches a glimpse of brown hair behind her. 

She stops and waits until Lexa rounds the corner to say, “Are you following me?” 

“I wanted to make sure you got home alright,” Lexa admits, looking guilty for a second before she adds, “Obviously, you’re a little... deluded right now.” 

“Don’t you have a home to go to?” Clarke counters meanly.

Lexa nods like she doesn’t want to think about that. "You're dating Bellamy?" she asks randomly. 

“What? No. What is this?” Clarke probes. “What do you want from me?” 

Lexa shrugs. 

Clarke fixes her with an angry glare. “You _were_ making out with her. Your faces were all up on each other, and then you pushed her back into the couch to finish your little makeout session.” 

Lexa lifts an eyebrow. “She threw up on my shirt and fell on me. Then I pushed her backwards onto the couch and started performing CPR. _Because she passed out._ It was alcohol poisoning, Clarke, not whatever it is you’re imagining. She’s a recovering alcoholic now.” 

Clarke shakes her head because no, _no_ , Lexa is still lying to her. Even if she doesn’t deserve it, she just wants the truth. She wants Lexa to admit what she’s done while Clarke’s father died as something she can never unsee.

“Raven and Anya were in the room with us,” Lexa adds, eyes turning brittle, icy, as Clarke’s heart drops onto the hard pavement below. “Ask them.” 

Clarke stares at her. For a moment, it feels like it once was. They're standing on a street together. 

But it’s not the past. Lexa stares at her like she’s a sad movie.

“I’m not the one who _left_ ,” Lexa says finally. 

And then she turns around, leaving.

Clarke waits until she’s completely gone to slide down the wall of whatever business she’s having a crisis in front of. She thinks back to that night-- did she actually see them kissing? Or did she just _assume_ when she saw them so close? Was she caught up in grief when she saw Lexa push Monroe onto the couch? Was she paying attention to her expression? What did Lexa _look like_? Was she happy, sad, turned on-- ? She can’t remember.

But it can’t be right.

It can’t be right because that would make _her_ the reason they’re apart. 

It can’t be right because that would mean she left Lexa Greenwood for _nothing_.

Clarke stumbles home the long way, and interrupts with her loud crying what looks to be a romantic dinner between Abby and Marcus. She’s always doing that, Clarke thinks, always destroying something important. She needs to leave, but she can’t leave anymore.

“What’s wrong, Clarke?” Abby asks, sinking down to where she’s collapsed at the bottom of the stairs. It’s the alcohol-- mostly. 

“Everything is wrong,” Clarke replies. She hasn’t been this much of a mess as she has been in the past forty-eight hours in a long, long time.

“I thought Bellamy was taking you out for drinks?” 

“He did,” Clarke says. Marcus is watching from the kitchen, and she thinks how messy this must look. She feels bad for him. “He took me to the stupid sports bar that he goes to all the time. The one that everyone goes to… the one that Anya and Lincoln and L… Lexa go to.” 

“You saw Lexa,” her mother sums up.

Abby has always pinpointed problems like this and Clarke hates the ability now more than ever. 

“Yes,” Clarke bites out. 

"Is this her jacket?" Abby questions, touching the crisp black blazer across her shoulders.

Clarke pulls it around herself protectively.

Abby sighs. “Well, it’s over now, baby. You’ve seen each other. No more surprises.” 

“Oh, there are,” Clarke said darkly. “The night I left… I came back to my apartment after I dropped you off,” she looks guiltily at her mother, but Abby doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, “and I thought I saw her cheating on me. Tonight, I told her I saw her, but she swore she didn’t.” 

Her mother looks surprised then skeptical. “How would that be true if you saw her?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know _what_ I saw. I need to talk to Raven.” 

“You need to sleep,” Abby replies firmly. “And she does, too. You’re going out to breakfast with her tomorrow, aren’t you? You can ask about it then.” 

“Mom, if Lexa didn’t cheat on me…” Clarke shakes her head in horror. She can’t even comprehend it. “I just… I just left her like everyone else without any explanation...” 

Abby nods. If it hurts her that Clarke feels worse about leaving Lexa than any of them, it doesn’t show on her face. “You don’t know that yet, Clarke. Talk to Raven. Get all the sides of the story.”

Clarke nods.

But she angrily cries herself to sleep.


	2. Act II

Raven glances at her. They’re at their Thursday tea date, and Clarke knows she looks like a sleep-deprived mess, but at least she’d washed all the smeared eyeliner off.

“I heard what happened,” Raven says, waving her hand as if to wipe it away.

“Yeah. I hate Bellamy,” Clarke replies. She looks at the counter. “You brought Octavia?” 

“She wanted to come. I told her about your boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, looking at her coffee.

“How long has it been since he… ?” Raven takes a sip of tea in lieu of finishing.

“Nearly two months,” Clarke admits.

“What happened with Lexa last night?” Raven counters-- but cautiously as though the mere mention of her name might make Clarke go off the deep end. 

It’s fair enough. Clarke sighs, and Octavia takes a seat. They stare at each other uncertainly. 

Clarke looks back at Raven. “I don’t know. She gave me her jacket.” 

“She gave you her jacket?” Raven asks in disbelief.

Clarke nods. “There’s something I have to clear up with you. It was part of the reason I left.” 

Raven arches an eyebrow.

“The day I came home from the hospital, I thought… I thought I saw Lexa cheating.”

Raven’s mouth falls open. “With who?” 

Clarke looks down to see a hand gripping her own, and she thinks it must be Raven, but when she looks to see who it’s connected to, it’s Octavia. She offers a grimace to Clarke. 

“Monroe,” Clarke sighs, squeezing Octavia’s hand. “I saw them, but Lexa says she didn’t. She said you were there.” 

“I was there,” Raven says slowly, and Clarke cringes, feels her hand go limp in Octavia’s before she pulls it away. “Clarke, _please_ tell me that’s not why you left?” 

Clarke stares at her. “It’s not the _entire_ reason…” 

“Oh my god,” Raven replies. “Monroe was sick. She was sick from drinking so much that night. I heard she’s in AA now. The only time Lexa touched her was to give her mouth to mouth... it was actually pretty freaking gross.” 

All of these fucking years. 

And Clarke wonders _for what?_

Octavia stands up and loudly asks the counter attendant, “Excuse me, but do you serve alcohol here? Like something strong?” The attendant nods, and goes to the back to fetch something.

Clarke is still staring into space, unreachable, when a beer is sat in front of her. 

“It’s the strongest thing we’ve got,” the attendant says. 

“That’ll do. Thank you,” Octavia says, handing her a credit card.

Clarke looks at it. “I shouldn’t drink. It’s not even noon.” 

“You’re going to drink this delicious beer Octavia’s bought for you, because your luck fucking sucks. Also, I’m pregnant and I want to watch you drink it,” Raven says.

“The last part was kinda weird, but you’re right,” Clarke replies. She takes a long sip of the beer. Then another. “God, I’m a idiot. A complete fuckup. I’m worse than fucking clueless Bellamy.” 

“Maybe a little bit,” Octavia agrees.

“So what? Life happens.” Raven says. “You were grieving, and you saw something, and it looked like something completely different. It was a million years ago.” 

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs. “She’s moved on. It doesn’t matter.” 

“She has,” Octavia points out. “She’s engaged, you know, but you’ve moved on too.” 

Raven gives her a look-- like she’s being too cruel.

“She’s engaged?” Clarke deadpans. Something in her twists violently, and she feels tears threaten to leave her eyes. “I know you said she moved on, but I didn’t think she was _that_ moved on… Fuck. Fuck. What’s her fiancée’s name? Maybe I can get Facebook...” 

“It was a million years ago,” Raven reminds her.

“I’ve completely ruined my life over something that could have been dealt with so easily…” 

“You haven’t ruined your life,” Octavia says. 

“I’ve ruined my chance of a perfect life,” Clarke returns, bitter.

Raven rolls her eyes. “Perfect doesn’t exist. Everyone has problems. Everyone. Last year, I had a bunch of miscarriages and went crazy and slept with someone else, but Anya forgave me.” 

“What?” Clarke says, shocked. 

“Yeah, and I’m on happy pills so I don’t kill my kid. Also, he’s a bastard because Lincoln and I aren’t even legally married,” Octavia throws in. “Lincoln’s family hates that.” 

“You’re going to be happy again, Clarke,” Raven declares. “I know it.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Clarke says, and she’s quiet for a moment. “It’s horrible… and I’m not even sure why, but I… I just really want to know who she’s marrying.” 

Raven sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“It’s healthy curiosity, Raven,” Octavia says in her defense. 

Clarke starts to smiles at her, but Raven deadpans, “Her name is Costia.” 

“Costia,” Clarke repeats. She nods. “Sounds smart.” 

“She is. She’s also a librarian,” Octavia replies.

Clarke frowns, opening her mouth and choosing rather to close it. 

“Okay, this can’t be helpful for you. We should talk about something else,” Raven says.

“I’m not going to break,” Clarke mutters. 

Raven eyes her doubtfully. “Promise?” 

Clarke rolls her eyes, and answers firmly, “Yes. I was a mess last night, but I’m not a mess _all_ the time. Besides all of this,” she gestures into the air to symbolize the giant mess she’s created, “I’m actually fairly successful at painting. And managing art galleries.” 

“Really?” Raven asks, intrigued. “I googled you, but I didn’t see much.” 

Clarke clears her throat, and says, “I paint under a different name.” 

“I’d like to see your paintings,” Octavia replies. 

Raven nods.

Clarke turns to her. “I’ll show you sometime. All the ones I have right now are packed away. Everything I own, in fact, just got delivered in a pod this morning to my mother’s driveway.” 

“Are you going to get your own place?” Raven inquires. 

“Yeah. I’m not a child anymore,” Clarke replies. “We both need space. That’s actually where I’m headed after here. I’m going to canvass the streets for rent signs.” 

“I might know of a place,” Octavia drops casually, taking a sip of her expresso. 

“Yeah, if you have any information about anywhere, I’ll gladly take it.” 

“Give me your number and I’ll forward it onto you,” Octavia replies.

Clarke does, and Raven, pleased, smiles at them as they exchange numbers. They shoot the shit far more casually after that, and Clarke learns that Octavia and Lincoln own several gyms in the area. It’s a huge accomplishment, and she’s only a tad jealous, which she doesn’t let show. 

Despite staying in the same town, every one of her friends have made names for themselves.

She only hopes she will do the same here.

 

The place Octavia’s suggested is right off the Potomac River. It’s a stunning little loft, exactly what she was looking for-- and yet somehow still in her price range. She’s able to arrange a showing for the same day and without seeing anywhere else, signs for it on the spot. It's been free for a week or so, and she's clear to move into it when she's ready. Things are coming together. 

And luckily, she has a job interview at 3 pm. 

She’s a mess of nerves, but she absolutely loves the gallery. It’s a quirky locals-only place, and she clicks well with the gallery director. 

She thinks maybe she did good. She thinks maybe she'll get it. 

She spends the remainder of the day relaxing. She soaks in her long forgotten city, and visits some of the old haunts. Though she was initially ambivalent, it feels good coming back here. There's just so much history, so much meaning, to the place.

They’re all adults now, and they’ve got to face their ghosts.

At breakfast, Raven invited the both of them for dinner. Octavia is busy, but Clarke returns to her mother’s house around 6pm to clean up. She takes a taxi to Raven and Anya’s, anticipating a few glasses of wine, and hopes seeing Anya is not as awkward as she feels it will be. 

Their house is impressive-- it's huge and right in the center of the city. 

Raven is who answers the door. She greets Clarke, takes her coat and purse, and leads her into a huge kitchen. There’s someone else preparing the food, which is new, but Clarke’s never seen Raven look so comfortable, so healthy, so… at ease. It looks good on her.

“Anya’s not home yet. We have snacks if you’re hungry now,” she explains, but Clarke waves her off. She’s fine.

“I signed for the apartment Octavia mentioned,” she says after a beat.

“That’s great, Clarke! Where at?” 

They sit down over small afternoon coffees, decaf for Raven, to go over the pros and cons of the neighborhood she's moving into. They even discuss all of the features the apartment comes with. Surprisingly, it’s fun. 

Finally, the front door bangs open and Anya rushes in. Clarke’s sitting in an enclave, so she hears her many apologies and sees a far too private kiss-- basically just them making out; Raven may have cheated, but they seem fine now-- and then Anya sees her.

“Clarke?” she questions.

“I asked her over for dinner,” Raven informs her.

Anya raises her eyebrows. “You asked her over for dinner _tonight_?” 

Clarke knows Anya hates her for what she’s done, but she thought she would at least try to be a little subtle about it. This is blatant. 

“Um, yes. Is that a problem?” Raven replies. She’s blunt about it-- offended for Clarke.

“We didn’t… we didn’t get everything taken care of yet. Lexa followed me home.” 

“Oh, God.” Clarke jumps up. “I’ll have dinner with you another night.” 

Raven nods, frowning, but then looks at Anya. “Can’t you just make her go away?” 

“Not once she sees Clarke,” Anya says lowly, giving Clarke an almost apologetic look (but more just snarky-- like she’s some kind of witch who spells her sister into caring).

“I’m leaving. Now. I’ll see you later. We can have dinner at my new place when I’m settled? I’m sorry!” Clarke calls, already rounding the corner towards the front door.

“No, I’m sorry, Clarke!” Raven replies. “We’ll have a makeup! I’ll call you!”

“Okay,” Clarke says, shouting “Love you,” with force of habit. 

Raven returns it without thinking, and unbeknownst to the other, they both smile a beat later. 

Clarke shuts the door and steps out into the night air.

But Lexa is frozen in front of her. 

She’s dressed professionally again-- black slacks, a checkered shirt, chrome watch. Her hair is down, and she looks... wonderful. 

Clarke thinks what a lucky fucking bitch Costia is. She better appreciate that sight. She better never let Lexa forget it like she had. 

Lexa’s staring at Clarke like she has two heads.

Clarke clears her throat and says, “Go ahead. I was just leaving."

Lexa nods, and because it’s a tight entry space, Clarke has to brush past her. For a moment, she can feel the heat of Lexa's body, and it's like a homing beacon that she has to vehemently ignore. Because Lexa's not her home anymore, Clarke reminds herself.

“Wait,” Lexa says when she’s mostly down the driveway and onto the street.

Clarke turns around. “What?” 

“Are you happy?” Lexa calls.

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it, and just shrugs. But the way Lexa continues to look at her demands an answer, so she says, “I think I’m getting there.” 

“Good,” Lexa breathes, and turns.

“Wait,” Clarke says this time, and Lexa swings back around. She takes a few steps towards her-- just so Lexa can hear what she’s about to say-- and Lexa drifts closer to her. “I may never get the chance to say this to you again, so I want to say it now. I owe you an apology. Maybe the biggest apology.” Clarke pauses. “I talked to Raven, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a fucking idiot. I was numb that night, and not acting like myself, and when I saw what I thought was you cheating, I just... shut down. I couldn’t deal with both situations at once. I couldn’t deal with any of it. For the record, I’m more than sorry.” 

“You don’t need to apologize, Clarke,” Lexa replies. 

“Why not?” Clarke counters. She can’t accept that, because then it’s like it doesn’t matter.

And it _does_.

“I know how hard you are on yourself,” Lexa says seriously. “I’m sure you’ve punished yourself enough for what happened… what we both let happen. And like I said, it was a long time ago.” 

“Regardless, I should have known. You’re not a cheater.” 

“No, I’m not a cheater, Clarke,” Lexa returns steadily, and her calmness ripples away, and there’s a hint of real anger there. “For the record, I would never cheat on you.”

“Yeah,” Clarke replies. That reminder just hurts now. But after all she’s done, it’s her burden to hear. Painful or not, she undoubtedly would listen to anything Lexa is still willing to tell her. 

“If you would have let me explain even once…” Lexa begins. She shakes her head in frustration. “For so long, I didn’t even know what we were. You left me hanging. It was all a big question mark. And It hurt so incredibly bad to just... be left.” 

Clarke swallows heavily. “I hate myself so much for making you feel like that.” 

Lexa softens again. “I know you do, Clarke.” She takes a deep breath, and considers something. “That's why you left? You thought I was cheating on you?” 

Clarke shrugs. “It’s a part of the reason.” 

Lexa closes her eyes. “I waited for years to even date,” she admits after a long time, frowning. “I always thought you would come back and we’d pick up where we left off. I had no clue that’s what you thought this whole time.” 

Clarke smiles. It’s bitter, and hurt, and if she doesn’t smile, she’ll cry. “Guess I was too late.”

“Guess you were,” Lexa returns. Clarke moves to turn away, to get away from whatever the hell this jarring, miserable interaction is, but Lexa speaks up again, inquiring, “Where are you going?” 

“Home," she returns over her shoulder. "I think I’ll take a walk. It’s a beautiful night.” 

“Clarke,” Lexa reprimands, “It’s nearly seven miles from here to Abby’s. Let me drive you.” 

Clarke shakes her head. “You shouldn’t do that.” 

“Why not?” Lexa retorts. She gets that look in her eye where she’s about to be stubborn, and Clarke turns back around and braces herself. “I’m not letting you walk home in those ridiculous shoes.” 

“You’re not letting me?” Clarke questions. “I can take the shoes off. You have a fiancée, Lexa.” 

“I’m well aware I have a fiancée, Clarke,” Lexa volleys back, eyes blazing all of a sudden. “But she has enough sense not to walk seven miles in stripper heels, so she doesn’t need rescuing.” 

It’s meant to be lighthearted, at least Clarke thinks it is, but it hurts so bad to hear. She’s sure Costia is better than her in a lot of ways. She hopes, anyway, for Lexa’s sake. She huffs, and finally mutters, “I don’t need rescuing. And not that it matters, but they aren’t _stripper heels_. God.” 

“Well, they’re… indecent,” Lexa informs her.

She rolls her eyes. “How so?” 

“They just seem to… draw the eye naturally towards your legs,” Lexa replies-- but quietly as if she’s worked out she shouldn’t be saying this halfway through saying it. She guiltily looks away.

“Oh my god,” Clarke says, and starts walking. She doesn’t even know that means, but the possibility that it’s one of Lexa’s odd old-timey compliments is too strong to ignore. 

Lexa shouts something at her, but she doesn’t turn back.

There’s a split minute of silence, but then a BMW rolls up next to her. 

“Get in the car, Clarke,” Lexa says through the opened driver’s window. “I swear I’ll follow you the entire way. You know you don’t want to walk that far.” 

“Oh my god,” Clarke repeats. She stops, sighs, and walks around the front of the car to get in. 

“What are you doing? Honestly-- what are you even trying to accomplish?” she asks when she’s inside. She buckles her seatbelt while she waits for an answer she can understand.

“I don’t know,” Lexa replies, raking her fingers through her hair, and it’s clear she doesn’t. 

Clarke sure as hell doesn’t.

Lexa zooms through familiar streets in her BMW. When they were younger, they’d never had anything half as nice as this BMW or Octavia’s Jaquar. They’re all old and (supposedly) wiser now. Time has radically changed them, and their circumstances, and just about everything.

Lexa’s phone starts buzzing, and Clarke can see clear as day the caller-- Anya-- but Lexa shoves it, somewhat guiltily, down the side of her car seat. It vibrates the entire car, and Clarke shakes her head in disbelief, but they both let out a chuckle. Eventually, the vibrating stops.

When _her_ phone starts buzzing-- Raven’s trying her now, and she’s guessing they’ve likely seen or heard what happened outside their own house-- she ignores it too, though. There’s a weird sense of time in this car. It’s like this doesn’t count-- it’s time they don’t have to answer for. It’s just for them. And the air is charged. It’s charged, crackling, just by them being together, by being this close. It’s almost a comfort but Clarke remembers everything is wrong, and Costia is Lexa’s fiancée ( _not her_ ), and she’s the one who fucked up in a monumental way. 

“Lexa,” she begins. She has to stop this.

But it's already started.

Probably because it never really ended.

“You changed your hair,” Lexa comments, interrupting.

“Yes,” Clarke answers in exasperation.

“I like it. Although it makes you look young. Pre-college young.” 

Clarke closes her eyes and glosses over the compliment. “I remember when we were _actually_ young.” 

“I remember too,” Lexa replies simply.

They’d fallen in love when they were sixteen and stupid. It was a magical time of her life. “All those lazy summer days, no stress or responsibility.” Clarke sighs, summarising, probably idealizing. “Everything is different now.”

Lexa nods. 

“Are you happy?” Clarke asks. She’s been wondering forever, not just since Lexa asked her the same thing. She wants to ask how Costia is, ask who she really is, but decides that’s strictly off limits. 

Lexa sighs like that’s a complicated answer, and it probably is, but she just says, “I think so.” 

Clarke nods. “I’m glad.” 

Lexa takes the time to really look at her. “Are you?” 

“Of course,” she counters. “I never wanted you to be unhappy. I mean I thought you were a cheating bastard for the past five years, but I still cared about you. You deserve good things.” 

Lexa nods, and then she looks pained. “That was one hell of a misunderstanding.” 

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. It's a misunderstanding that cost her a life she doesn’t know anymore and yet still misses. There’s a lot more she could say, and she wants to, but she shouldn't and she doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry about Jake.” Lexa says abruptly, and frowns. “I never got to chance to tell you.” 

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers. “It was horrible, continues to be, but I’ve tried to move on from it.” 

She tries not to think about Finn. So far, she’s been lumping him in with her dead father, which can’t be healthy. It _was_ an accident, an unfortunate coincidence. Most people here don’t know about him, and if she doesn’t talk about it, it’s almost like it never happened. Besides, it’s just another reason why Lexa and her would never work. Clarke’s cursed, destroys everything she loves, and she cares too much about Lexa to kill her. She deserves better. 

Lexa deserves to be happy with someone that would never choose to walk away. 

Clarke takes a deep breath, and Lexa asks, “Are you going to stay?” 

People keep asking her that. It seems to be the million dollar question.

“Actually, I signed a lease today,” Clarke replies.

“Oh?” Lexa asks, and if she sounds interested, it's probably strictly polite. Clarke makes a vague sound of assent. They’re getting close to her mother’s house now. “You have a job lined up?” she adds.

“I had a job interview today,” Clarke admits. “I’ve had some success painting, so I do that part time too. But I also manage galleries.” She fiddles with the edge of her dress.

“I know.”

Clarke turns her head. “You do? About my paintings?” 

Lexa shrugs. “I… I own a security consulting business.” 

“So, you found out the fake name I use too,” Clarke deduces.

“Yes.” 

“And you’ve seen my work?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” Lexa repeats.

Clarke hates herself for asking: “Did you… like it?” 

Lexa looks flustered, and itches at her shirt collar. “I had a piece in my office.” 

“Really? But how did you buy it without me noticing?” 

“I had Anya’s assistant buy it,” Lexa confesses. “Nobody knew it was by you. I know Anya liked it, but I let her donate it last year. It didn’t fit our new theme.” 

Clarke finds herself on an emotional roller coaster, but takes the necessary time to pick apart the gist of Lexa’s meaning. “Why would you go to the trouble of doing that?” she questions after a beat.

Lexa shrugs, and looks away-- indifferent. “I did like it.” 

But her words aren’t indifferent.

“Well, thanks,” Clarke returns, bewildered.

“You’re talented, Clarke. You always have been.” 

Clarke’s pleased but just nods, and then she notices they’re outside her mother’s house. She knows they’ve been sitting still for a couple of minutes now, but hadn't realized they were actually here. “I should get inside,” she says. 

“You should,” Lexa drawls.

Clarke puts her hand on the car handle, and they stare at each other. 

They’ve already technically broken up-- Clarke guesses-- but they keep acting like it’s the last time they’ll see each other whenever they run into each other. It’s not the truth, really, but just a feeling they share. They have way too many people in common not to run into each other. 

The streetlights highlight the gleam in Lexa’s eyes and her wrist watch.

It feels like they’re sixteen and so, so stupid again.

“I really should,” Clarke replies, but doesn’t move.

Lexa watches with wide eyes that turn pleading. “Please.”

Clarke thinks she’s asking her to leave. It remains unsaid that neither of them want her to go.

Clarke almost doesn’t, almost doesn’t have enough mental strength to pry herself out of the car, but she does.

Lexa rolls down the passenger window, and Clarke can’t seem to leave her willingly this time, so she crouches down. “Thanks for the ride, Lexa,” she says.

“You’re welcome, Clarke,” Lexa replies. 

Clarke smiles. She forces herself to turn around-- and she’s walking-- but when she does, the smile drops off her face. The anxiety racing through her, the repressed urges, she feels it all seep onto her face. When she unlocks the front door, she closes and sags wearily against it. 

The headlights from Lexa’s car disappear, and she is left alone with only her thoughts. 

Which is a dangerous thing that leads to her thinking about Lexa-- about her lips, her intentions, her fiancée for fuck's sake.

Clarke has to fire off three texts to calm Raven down, who probably imagines and definitely implies that they’re off in a hotel having kinky sex together (Clarke wishes), and then she falls asleep after a long while awake.

 

Tomorrow comes, and it’s time.

It’s time to move on.

Abby doesn’t feel that way though. “Clarke, why are you leaving?” she asks, tears in her eyes as she sees Clarke throw her ratty backpack by the front door. She’s packed her only bag, and has arranged for (an outrageous fee) the pod to be moved to her new residence. “I told you it was fine to stay here. We love having you. This is so sudden,” Abby adds. 

Clarke sighs. “I love you and I am staying, mom. I’m twenty minutes away in bad traffic. You can visit me literally whenever.” 

Abby purses her lips then looks at her. “You promise? You promise you won’t…” 

“I’m staying,” Clarke repeats. 

“I can take the day off work to help you…” 

“But you have important work to do, mom,” Clarke says, taking her hands. She looks into Abby’s eyes and smiles. “You don’t need to reschedule surgeries to help me. I’ve got it. I don’t even have that much stuff. Besides, I want it to be put together the first time you see it.”

“You know I love you, right, baby?” Abby replies.

“You know I love you, right?” Clarke returns. “I’m just sorry for how much I’ve hurt you.” 

Abby shrugs, and smiles. “I would go through it all over again if it means you’ll stay.” 

Clarke shakes her head. “You won’t have to ever go through it again,” she promises. “I’m here for good. I’m not running away from anything else.” 

Abby stares at her. “I am so proud of you, Clarke Abigail Griffin.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes at the middle name. “Why don’t you save that for when I get a job?” 

“No, I’m serious,” Abby insists, forcing Clarke to look at her. “I know not everyone has given you the easiest time about it, but… it took guts to do what you did. Not everyone could have done that. I think most people wouldn’t have come back at all. Coming here and apologizing was so, so brave.” 

“It was cowardly to run away in the first place,” Clarke reminds her.

“We all make mistakes. All of us. You deserve forgiveness. And I think you’ve earned it.” 

“Please don’t make me cry,” Clarke replies, wiping her eyes preemptively. 

Abby laughs, and she’s crying, but it doesn’t detract from her happiness. “That’s what mothers do, Clarke.”

“You are the absolute best mother I could have ever had,” Clarke says seriously. “You love me and believe in me and see the best in me when I can bearly stand myself. And I will spend the rest of my life making up to you what a horrible daughter I’ve been for the past five years. You’re in for some elaborate Mother’s Day celebrations, so be prepared.”

Abby just smiles.

“I know you knew where I was, though. Lexa told me. Did it ever occur to you… to reach out?” 

Abby’s eyes widen slightly. “Everyday. But you ran for a reason. I’ve got a stubborn daughter. She tends to only see things when she comes to the conclusion herself.”

Clarke laughs, and it's bittersweet. “True.” 

Her mom has to leave to be on time to work, and just after, she receives a text from Bellamy asking if she’s okay. He must have got her number from Octavia. Clarke tells him she is, and that she forgives him, but that she’s moving and that if he isn’t busy, he can earn his redemption by helping. 

Even though it’s midday on a Friday, he takes her up on it. She has no idea what he does (she finds out later he’s a salesman), but he must have flexible hours. They drink Jack and Cokes, and dance around to shitty 90s music while they lug boxes up five flights of ancient stairs. Afterwards, they order take-out and sort the boxes all out. Despite his short-sightedness, Bellamy is actually really funny, and at the end of the day, Clarke’s jaw feels sore from how much she’s laughed.

“It looks good, kid,” he says when everything is more or less in (chaotic) order. 

“It does. Looks better than all of our old college apartments, doesn’t it?” Clarke asks. She’d lived with Raven in complete shitholes for her few years in college, and the rest of their friend's apartments faired no better.

Bellamy snorts. “That’s not hard. I could decorate it in that taste if you want? Sprinkle some empty beer cans here and add some crates over there…” 

She laughs, and replies, “Thanks for helping me. You’re a good man. And a good friend.” 

Bellamy looks at her for a moment too long, and prompts, “Only a friend?” 

Clarke looks at him nervously. There has just officially became an awkward moment. She’s always felt this sort of energy coming off him, this intensity that is more than strictly friendly, and call her crazy, but she had a feeling all this time about him and his feelings. But she's ignored it, because she's never once felt the same. He has always been Bell-- Octavia's goofy, loving big brother and her good friend; nothing more and nothing less.

“You’re sort of one of my few friends right now, Bell. I don’t want to ruin that,” she says. She doesn’t owe him anything, but there’s a lot of history between them and she wants to preserve that by letting him down gently (and firmly).

He nods. “It would be a bit incestous, wouldn’t it?” 

She's glad he says it so she doesn't have to. “Yeah. No offense, but I can’t even imagine-- you’re my brother.” 

He laughs, but it’s painful and she can feel his lingering sadness. He acts like it’s all forgotten, but leaves soon after.

Clarke finds herself alone in her new apartment for the first time. 

She takes a deep breath, and opens a bottle of wine. 

She might have technically _known_ , but she honestly did not see that one coming. 

Clarke goes out on her patio and starts painting a scene. There’s a lot of pretty lights, and the river, it’s just breathtaking in this golden hour between night and day. It calms her and fills her with happiness.

 

After an hour of painting, there’s a knock on her door. 

Clarke opens it to find Anya Greenwood on her doorstep. 

She’s always found this woman a little scary-- she's the more intimidating Greenwood who has no hesitation to really fuck someone up. It’s why Clarke steps out into the hall, and pulls the door closed behind her. The look on Anya’s face is pure animosity, and she doesn’t want that in her space, in her head.

“Clarke,” Anya greets sternly. 

Clarke feels like she’s in the principal’s office. “Anya?” she questions. "It's late." 

Anya sighs. “I didn’t want to have to do this…” 

“Well, the elevator is right behind you,” Clarke replies coldly. She knows where this is going.

“You need to stay away from my sister.” 

And there it is.

Clarke scrunches up her face. 

She will not cry. 

She. Will. Not. Cry.

She feels like a monster, is being made to feel like a monster really, but she is not a monster.

Clarke takes a deep breath, and says, “All I’ve done the whole time I’ve been here is try to stay away from Lexa. It’s not my fault we keep running into each other.” 

“Oh, but it is,” Anya says. “It has to be. Your pussy magic or whatever is like a goddamn homing beacon, and it’s always turned Lexa into a giant idiot. But she has a fiancée. She’s happy.” 

“Pussy magic?” Clarke repeats, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all. They’re not teenagers anymore and she’s being threatened. “First off, that’s ridiculous. Secondly, I’m glad she has a fiancée and is happy. I wish the best for her. Thirdly, you should probably leave.” 

Anya ignores her suggestion to asks, “What happened last night?” 

“Anya… with all due respect because you are my very pregnant best friend’s wife… it’s none of your goddamn business what happened last night.”

“Did you fuck each other?” Anya deadpans. 

“Oh my god, no!” Clarke yells. She hopes her new neighbors aren’t listening to these accusations; this would be a horrible first impression. “All we did is talk, okay? We were in the car for fifteen minutes tops. I _know_ she has a fiancée.” 

“Mhm. I’m just not sure that would stop you, Griffin.” Anya narrows her eyes. “Every time you show up, fiancée or not, Lexa ends up running after you.” 

But Lexa didn’t chase me, Clarke thinks, not when it would have mattered.

“Yeah, this conversation is over. You better pray I don’t tell Raven about this.” 

Anya’s face sharpens at the mention of Raven, and if she was threatening before, she’s practically committing assault with her face now. “I swear if you dare upset my eight month pregnant wife, Griffin… you’ll regret it,” Anya says ominously, taking a step towards her. 

“You know, Anya," Clarke begins, and oh, she's so ready to let someone _have it_ after the week she's had, "Everyone knows you think you’re a real hardass, but I thought there was at least a decent person under all that fake bullshit. You're not in the fucking mafia, and if you touch me, best friend or no, don't presume to think I won't kick your goddamn ass. Don’t come here again.”

Clarke steps through her door, and slams it in Anya’s surprised face.


	3. Act III

It’s the next morning, and Clarke is still angry, and _violated_ , about the Anya incident. She finds she’s mostly pissed that Anya’s right. She's knows she isn’t good for Lexa, which is probably why she’s so mad about being told she isn't.

Clarke decides to try a new French bistro for a lazy breakfast to get her mind off everything. She’s had a craving for a good scone five days in a row. She craves pastries, but does yoga every day and some cardio like _occasionally_ , and she hasn't gained any weight since college. 

When she arrives, she purchases two blueberry scones and a vanilla latte. She nearly moans when she tries a bite of one. They're steamy soft heaven, so it's a strange parallel when not a minute later, the taste of them is ruined. 

Because the door opens, and times seem to slow when a black-haired woman walks in on the arm of another. 

The other is Lexa-- and Clarke guesses... _Costia_.

They can't see her where she’s reading the newspaper, _thank fuck_ , so she, fascinated by this picture, observes them for a second.

Costia is beautiful-- all silky black hair, brown eyes, and heart-shaped face. She looks younger than them by a few years, maybe 22 or 23, but she carries herself regally. It's familiar. Clarke eventually works out that’s because Costia carries herself like Lexa does at her most reserved. Costia is reserved, but she's not _that_ conservative, because they're touching each other in like five different spots. It looks like they’re melded together as if they literally can't stand to be apart. Lexa even orders Costia’s breakfast without asking. Lexa likes her, and she clearly knows her preferences for these mundane (important) things. Clarke reminds herself that they are _engaged_.

Clarke looks down at the crumbs on her hand and wipes them off quickly on the newspaper. She sighs. She can't do this.

Clarke knows everything is her fault, and she has no right to be reacting so violently to this, but the fact remains that she is. Even if to avoid more drama and (unresolvable) tension, she needs to go-- but the thing is that she doesn't.

Lexa putting her hands all over this girl is the absolute worst, and she can't look away. Costia is probably a nice girl, but Clarke finds herself incapable of being impartial. Costia just looks so strange, so glaringly wrong, draped on Lexa’s arm. Because that's always been where she belongs.

Had Lexa always preferred black hair and brown eyes? Had she always preferred girls that look a little... snobbish? That slim? Young?

Maybe Clarke's too judgmental. Or maybe she's just old and fat and ugly.

Shaking the thought away, Clarke folds up her newspaper with a heavy heart-- a heart that tells her exactly what and how she lost the future of the couple in front of her. There's a backdoor, but it's kind of close to where they’re standing. Still, she needs to leave. 

She thinks she'll probably just keep walking if Lexa sees her and/or calls her out. But then her cell phone starts ringing-- Baby, Hit Me One More Time is a fucking embarrassing ringtone-- and she looks up to find the attention of nearly everyone in the cafe on her. 

Her eyes interlock with Costia’s.

And Costia clearly knows who she is from the arched brow she shoots her.

Lexa is basically the only one not looking at her awkward, flustered self-- she appears to be answering her own phone-- so Clarke turns toward the wall and does the same. It's Raven.

“Clarke,” Raven groans. She screams a little, and Clarke leans away from the phone in abject horror. This can’t be good. Is it about Anya... ? “It's time.”

_Oh._

“Oh my god!” Clarke exclaims, and then glances apologetically at the couple next to her. They’re glaring. “The baby! Isn't it too early?” 

“He's coming anyway. It’s only a week early-- should be fine. Owwww. Fucking ow. Anya, what are you doing? Get the bag. _GET THE BAG BEFORE YOUR CHILD COMES OUT OF ME ON THE HIGHLY UNSANITARY KITCHEN FLOOR._ Clarke, meet us at the hospital.”

“Okay, Rae, you got this. I'll be there soon and I've been watching YouTube videos--” Clarke hears a dial tone. She rolls her eyes and lowers the phone into her pocket.

When she turns around, Lexa _and_ Costia are both staring at her.

She looks at the ceiling and sighs. She really truly does not mean for this to keep happening.

It’s the kind of shit that happens in cheesy movies. But those aren't real, she knows that well enough, and it's just… painful. It's ridiculous.

“Clarke?” Lexa prompts.

“Raven's having her baby!” Clarke says with a sudden surge of adrenaline. Maybe it will carry her out of and away from here. “I need to get to the hospital.”

“I know. Anya just called me,” Lexa says. They seem to get closer to each other, not of their own accord, but creeping in line like two objects in a gravitational field. But there’s someone extra in their world.

Costia’s arm is laced with Lexa’s.

Clarke smiles at the girl, who returns the gesture hesitantly. “Okay, well… I'll see you there,” she says. “Might be a little late, so hold down the fort, will you? I walked here, so I'm gonna grab a cab real quick.”

“You can ride with me,” Lexa says. She glances at the girl on her arm. “With us.”

“Right.” Clarke looks at Costia. “I think the cab will work. Don't want to be a bother.”

“It's not a bother, Clarke. Also, we don't have time to argue about it,” Lexa drawls, disentangling from Costia. She walks briskly to the front door of the establishment and holds it open. “Just get in my car.”

“Fine,” Clarke says stiffly. 

Costia shoots her the fakest smile ever, but Clarke waits until she turns around to roll her eyes. Costia doesn't see it, but Lexa sees it and it almost looks like she's going to laugh. Why the hell would she _laugh_?

Lexa holds the door for both of them.

“Crap,” Clarke mutters glumly as she races after Costia. She passes by Lexa, and they all go on an insane sprint to the BMW, piling in. 

Clarke has to sit in the back because she’s the third wheel now. 

She totally hates her life.

And she forgot her scones. And latte. 

Also, the car ride is horrible. It’s this big tense silence as everybody in the car thinks about what it all means. Clarke finally has enough-- she has to do something because they simply can't continue to carry on like this.

“So, Costia, this is awkward and I'm sorry about that, but it is nice to meet you,” Clarke blurts out, checking out her cuticles. She could use a manicure. And maybe if she thinks about that, she won’t think about _what’s happening_.

Lexa sighs. “Yes. Costia, this is Clarke.” She gestures beside her. “Clarke, Costia.”

“I know,” Costia says quietly, and she's reminding them both. “Hello, Clarke.”

“I heard you're a librarian. Which branch do you work at?” Clarke asks, and hopes that doesn’t sound too stalker-ish. To her utter surprise, she manages to get an entire conversation out of Costia. They make small talk about where she works, what it is she does, and by the five minutes it takes Lexa to drive extremely fast to the hospital, it's not _quite_ as tense. But it’s not ideal either.

“You think you’re a racecar driver, babe,” Costia tells Lexa, smiling. She puts her hand casually on Lexa’s shoulder and caresses her neck.

Okay, it fucking sucks.

Lexa smiles back at her, but it's short, muted. Clarke knows because she’s used to the big, unrestrained kind of smiles. They're in an entirely different world, but the memories of them remain. She can remember the smiles of 16 year old Lexa, and the 19 year old Lexa, and finally, the 22 year old Lexa, which is where her memory stops-- because there’s nothing to remember. Of what she can remember… well, she tries not to think about it. But the memories do pop up in her dreams sometimes. They're always somewhere in the past, and they're not always perfect memories on account of either her memory, brain, or their actual behavior, but they're still comforting somehow. 

Lexa jumps out of the car before they’re even properly in the parking garage. “Costia, can you park it?” she asks, talking quickly-- frazzled. “You're going to have to wait in the visiting room. There's only so many people allowed in the actual birthing room. I’m sorry.”

That gives Clarke a sick feeling of satisfaction, and she knows that it’s wrong, which is why she fights down the glee rising in her throat so violently.

“Of course, babe,” Costia replies easily-- and leans over.

She’s going to kiss Lexa.

She’s going to _kiss Lexa_. 

A surge of irrational jealousy winds it way up her gut, stabbing each time it twists. Clarke looks away before Lexa can actually press a kiss to Costia’s cheek, because she knows instinctively it’s something she can’t unsee. It’ll stay with her forever. 

She knew it with her dad, and she knew it with Finn, and she knows it now too. 

It's not a death, but it's damn close to the death of something inside her. And maybe it’s the easy way out, a way to delude herself for a stupid second longer, but she spares herself the pain. Before they’ve even touched, she gets out of the car under the guise of getting to Raven-- but horribly, she's thinking about Lexa. 

About Lexa _and_ Costia.

Lexa joins her shortly, and as Costia drives away, Clarke looks at the car and says, “She's great. When… when is the wedding?”

She doesn’t want to come or anything. She just has a morbidly sick sense of curiosity, and as Lexa mentioned, an out of control, truly excessive habit of punishing herself. 

“We haven't decided yet,” Lexa says. Her lips draw tight, and Clarke nods, and they’re racing away again. She's not sure who ran first, but they’re both doing it now. Her hair is flying everywhere, and it smells like death and old people in this damn hospital. Lexa is burrowing her eyebrows in either stress or worry, but Clarke thinks it's maybe the happiest she’s been since she came back if only because Lexa is beside her and they’re running towards something. 

It's progress forward in some measurable way.

But maybe she's pathetic for thinking that.

They stop at the visitor's booth and Lexa all but demands, “What room is Raven Greenwood in?”

The old lady behind the desk raises her eyebrow at the tone, which is just worried really, but then Lexa is being totally charming and smiling and complimenting. She digs around in the candy jar while they wait and gets Clarke a blueberry sucker. They're her favorite.

Finally, they get the room number and Lexa thanks her. Clarke bites the sucker so hard it breaks and she almost chokes not two steps into their dash towards the elevator. She handles it in stride, spitting it into her hand and throwing it into a trash can (she actually makes it-- it's impressive), before she speeds up and beats Lexa to the elevator. There's nobody in the elevator.

They're close, touching almost, and the door shuts. Her body buzzes in recognition of it.

And Clarke accidentally has a moment.

It's like a movie in her head.

She sees what they've _been_. 

She sees every giggle fit, stupid fight, night out, shared secret, stolen kiss, _I love you_.

She sees Lexa for the first time, and they fall in love, and graduate high school together, and go to separate colleges, and fight, and grow into different people, and fall in love again in an entirely new way. And Clarke's father dies and she leaves Lexa. For no real reason.

She sees what they _could be_.

And instead of Raven, it’s her in the hospital bed. They’re moving forward. They’re happy.

And finally, she sees where they _are_.

Here. 

In a disease-ridden hospital.

Together, but undeniably separate.

Clarke glances over at Lexa. She’s been aching for her for so long now.

She _knows_ that. She’s _known_ that.

But she lets herself actually admit it for a second. And it feels so fucking good.

But she can't do anything about it.

Because she doesn't deserve Lexa.

And _Costia_. 

It's the saddest story in the world, and it only lasts for twenty seconds in her head, but nobody will ever know and it kills her. The elevator dings, and they go, but Clarke is hit with such a profound sense of sadness that she slows down, stops entirely, and leans her palms on her knees. She's panting like she's ran out of air, but they've been running for exactly four seconds.

This is an emergency situation.

And this is _not_ the moment to be breaking down.

But their story, their history and could bes and present, has stolen her breath away.

Their love was so real, and she swears if they only stop fighting it, it'll be there like it never left.

Clarke entertains the notion of saying something. Even though there's a large chance of rejection, of embarrassment, maybe it's the kind of thing she has to try. 

Doesn't she owe it to Lexa to try? Doesn't she owe it to Lexa to chase after her for once?

Or maybe she owes Lexa quietness-- she should suffer in silence. She deserves it, right?

And Lexa’s engaged. She's _happy_. Without her.

Lexa sees that she’s stopped, and returns. “What are you doing, Clarke? We’re almost there.” 

“Go without me. I need a minute,” Clarke says, wheezing. Lexa nods, and turns away, and Clarke goes into an empty hospital room to stare out the window and try to breathe again. There’s silence until there’s not.

“What's wrong?” Lexa asks.

Clarke jumps, whirling around. She didn't realize Lexa followed her-- it's more than is necessary, more than she deserves. She shakes her head because she can't breathe. She desperately needs to get some air.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, face twisting into rapid concern. “Breathe.”

Clarke tries to do that, she really does, as she turns back to the window. 

But she needs space. She needs a moment. Lexa only gives her ten seconds before she’s right behind her.

“Relax. Relax so you can breathe,” Lexa says. She reaches around to rub a spot on Clarke’s chest that’s always opened her airway. They'd discovered that from smoking so much pot in college. Her chest presses lightly against Clarke’s back, and it's so warm, and the smell… something clenches in her stomach reacting to Lexa’s smell.

It’s home. 

Clarke does breathe, finally, and she does so deeply.

Her head is swimming with Lexa. 

It's an utterly addictive feeling. 

Clarke thinks _fiancée, fiancée, fiancée_.

She’s always had a mild case of asthma, but she suspects that isn't entirely what this is.

“Do you feel better?” Lexa asks quietly.

“Yes,” Clarke whispers, because when Lexa is touching her, everything is _better_. She doesn't mean for her voice to be so husky, because Lexa notices, stiffens, and pulls away from her.

“Let's go,” Lexa replies, her tone steady and business-like.

Clarke nods. 

This is isn't about her-- or them. 

Raven desperately needs her right now.

She runs out of the room again, and yeah, she's definitely running away, but it's towards the same endgoal, so her being a complete chickenshit doesn't count in this one instance.

Raven is _red_. Like literally, her face is all contorted and red like she’s possessed.

“Clarke!” she yells very deeply. She’s trying to deep breathe at the same time as shouting-- or something. Anya’s at her side, and she looks uncharacteristically panicked. 

“Okay,” Clarke says. She takes a deep breath, and grabs a pair of scrubs to wear as she rushes to her side. “Breathe with me. 1... 2... 3... That’s it.”

Lexa grabs scrubs, and runs to Anya.

“You're okay,” she says, grabbing Anya’s shoulder before slipping the scrubs on.

It's a long labor. 

14 hours as it happens.

 

On the fifth hour, Clarke hand cramps from rubbing Raven’s body, which seems to hurt her everywhere and all at once. A nurse takes over, and nothing seems to be happening anytime soon, so she heads out to grab a soda or something. She’s dead on her feet after such a continually stressful situation.

Lexa-- who has been busy talking the worried out of Anya’s fearful face-- follows her out.

“Is Costia still here?” Clarke asks.

Lexa shakes her head. “She texted me she went home.”

Clarke nods. “It's been awhile.”

“It’ll probably be awhile still,” Lexa mutters.

“Is Anya okay?” Clarke asks. “We had a… chat yesterday, and she seemed stressed.” 

Lexa nods. “Just scared. They've had a lot of trouble conceiving, and the baby's early.” She sighs, and looks much older than Clarke remembers for a minute. “But it's going to be fine. Only a week early. He’s healthy, and he'll get here.”

“He’ll be absolutely perfect,” Clarke agrees.

Lexa smiles at her, and asks, “What happened with Anya?” 

Clarke sighs. “She… sort of came to my apartment late last night. She was mad.”

Lexa raises a single deadly brow. “Why?” 

Clarke laughs bitterly. “She warned me to stay away from you,” she says. “Seems that's impossible,” she adds, mumbling.

Lexa frowns. “Normally I'd have a word with her, but I think I should delay that message for another day. However, I apologize. That wasn’t her place.”

“Don’t apologize,” Clarke says gently. She sighs as they walk around a corner. “It's fine. I told her to get fucked. I do sort of agree with her though.”

Lexa frowns again, and there’s an injured air to it. “You don't think we should be friends?” 

Clarke gives her a reproachful look. “Honestly, I don't think I really deserve to be your friend. I'm surprised you even talk to me. I can’t imagine anything worse than... what I did to you.”

“I can't imagine not talking to you, Clarke,” Lexa retorts, running a hand over her face. It’s another confession. “Actually, I can. I have practice. But… it's not… right.”

Clarke is quiet at her words, she can see the sun going down as she shoves a dollar into the vending machine they’ve arrived to. 

Is she destined to be tortured forever?

The dollar is spat back at her, and Clarke thinks _yes I am_. She gives a grunt of frustration, but Lexa takes the dollar and smoothes it out. Clarke nods at her gratefully and gets a raspberry snapple. Lexa pulls out the change to get a 5 hour energy and two chocolate chip granola bars. 

She passes one to Clarke.

“Thanks. Those little drinks are horrible for you, you know,” Clarke tuts, taking it.

“Concerned for my health?” Lexa asks.

The question catches Clarke by surprise, and while Lexa was totally kidding, she’s completely weird and a _vulnerable_ expression crosses her face. She's so weak.

Lexa looks caught off guard.

But-- of course Clarke's concerned. It’s Lexa. It’s her health.

Raven’s scream distracts them, and Clarke shoves the Snapple and granola bar into her pocket with the seals still on them. Neck in neck, they shoot each other a worried look and race back.

The doctor promises she's fine and everything is looking normal, but Raven is screaming like there's really a problem. Everyone in the room is saying something to help her (or themselves) through it. Clarke keeps continually looking to Lexa for support when she probably shouldn’t, but Lexa gives it to her, and this is hard-- everyone is so damn scared and tense. 

They're all in this mess together. 

"Octavia was right-- this is fucking stupid," Raven says. "My fucking vagina. It's never going to be the same, Clarke. Never." 

Clarke gulps. "Yeah," she whispers. Fuck, but she's glad in the second it's not her. Anya glares at her, and she adds, "But it'll be okay. Where is Octavia?"

"She can't do another birth," Raven says through gritted teeth. She pants, and stands, and suddenly sits again. "I'm just gonna--" She gets on her hands and knees on the bed. She sighs in relief. "This feels good, okay. Nobody look at me. So, she's kinda messed up about Darwin's birth. It didn't go so well. She's putting snacks in my house right now though. And cleaning the bathtub. That's almost... better... in a way..." She moans and grabs onto Anya's hand. Anya looks pained, and in turn looks at Lexa with large worried eyes. 

Lexa looks at Clarke.

"Okay, so that's fine. Continue in whatever position feels best; there's no need to force yourself to lay on your back," Clarke says, rubbing her lower back. It seems to help now as opposed to making her nauseous. "As per my qualifications, I recently have been watching a lot... like hours... of Youtube videos about what we can do to naturally reduce the pain as you mentioned you wanted no narcotics." The nurse laughs, and Clarke smiles wryly at her. "You're in a great position right now, Rae."

Raven almost smiles, and just breathes, and nods eventually. "Thank you for being here, Clarke. You're so good at this," she says.

Clarke shrugs. "It's what best friends do."

The pain breaks eventually a bit, and it's much the same-- a frustrating waiting game-- for awhile. 

 

On the seventh hour, Clarke's phone rings.

The sound is obnoxious-- _honestly_ why does she have this awful ringtone-- and she cringes in apology before glancing at it. 

It's the art gallery.

It's a down moment anyway, so she sneaks out of the room. She answers and listens numbly as the hiring manager offers her a job.

It's part time like she wants, but there's benefits and they're incredible. She accepts their offer, and is informed she will start on Monday.

She's smiling when she walks back in. Anya and Raven are whispering to each other, forehead on forehead, and they’re having sort of a private moment. So, she walks off to the side-- where there’s a nurse sipping a coffee and Lexa, who just looks at Clarke and raises an eyebrow.

“It was the job I interviewed for,” she replies. “I got it.”

Lexa relaxes into a smile. “That's great, Clarke. You should be proud. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs. She needs the job. Between the frequent explosions, Clarke's been painting nonstop since her arrival. Drama makes for good artwork at least, but none are finished. “So, you own your own company?” Clarke inquires.

“Yes,” Lexa replies, “It takes up a lot of my time," and she smiles faintly, "but it’s my baby.” 

“I always knew you would go on to do great things,” Clarke mutters.

Lexa laughs. “That makes one of us.” 

Clarke shakes her head. “Don’t get down on yourself like that. You’re brilliant, Lex.” 

At her words, Lexa smiles, but Raven starts mewling in pain again and Clarke drags herself away.

She needs the distance.

 

On the tenth hour, Abby walks into the room.

“Mom?” Clarke asks.

Abby smiles at her, and looks at Raven. “I heard Mrs. Greenwood over here was in labor.”

Clarke freezes because everyone used to call her that in college jokingly-- but it’s Raven’s real last name.

“Jesus, Abby,” Raven says, steamrolling all over Clarke's moment as she clutches her stomach and tries to smile, but only fails horribly. “What are you doing here?” she asks through deep breaths.

“I came to check on one of my favorite girls, of course,” Abby says, going over to her. Raven has been Clarke’s best friend since kindergarten-- and her mother has always treated her like a second daughter. Like family. Abby wipes some of the sweat off Raven’s face and smiles encouragingly at Anya. They're all tired, but obviously, they're far worse off right now.

Abby chats with Raven for a minute, smoothing the hair from her sweaty face, and looks over the chart and assures Anya nothing is wrong. But a nurse comes by with some pain medication-- after Raven, crying, asks for it-- and Anya's helping her sit up, so Abby steps away to give them some space. 

Clarke steps away too-- towards Abby--but then Abby goes to Lexa so she follows. Stupidly.

“Lexa,” Abby nods. “It’s been a long time.” 

“Mrs. Griffin,” Lexa replies politely. It's probably a habit at this point but she sounds like she's sixteen years old and trying to impress her. “It’s been too long.” 

Abby smiles. “Why am I not surprised to see you two together?” she asks.

Clarke gives her a dark look. Mothers may make you cry, but this isn't the right time.

“I guess we were both lucky enough to be invited to participate in the birth,” Lexa replies. It's completely obvious, robotic, so she must have felt the need to say it. Clarke isn’t sure what her motive is-- maybe to sweep their little moments away? to render them invalid?-- but she doesn't blame her.

“How coincidental,” Abby states.

Clarke gives her a look that grows increasingly pissed off. Lexa just nods.

“I heard you're engaged. Congratulations!”

Lexa meekly smiles. “Thank you, Mrs. Griffin.”

“Clarke left your jacket at the house by the way,” Abby says, her voice dripping with threats. She looks Lexa over like she's a pile of dog shit. “It looks expensive. You should stop by the house to pick it up sometime.”

“Oh?” Lexa says. “I'll be sure to.”

Abby smiles, but it isn't quite a smile-- more a showing of the teeth, an upwards grimace.

Clarke thinks it's pretty terrifying actually.

“Well, I have surgeries, baby,” Abby says to Clarke, wiping that traumatizing look off her face to address her own daughter. "But I'll keep getting updates on Rae to make sure everything's going smoothly.”

“Alright. Love you, mom,” Clarke says, giving her a one-armed hug. As soon as her mother leaves, Clarke turns to Lexa and says, “Do me a favor and let me get the jacket. I think…”

“Yeah, no, I got that.” Lexa shudders. “God, that was worse than when we were sixteen.”

“But worse than the time she found us making out in the backyard?” Clarke asks.

Lexa laughs and shrugs. “Well, you're the one who threw the plate of hotdogs at her.”

“I was sixteen… everyone was yelling... I was very hormonal,” Clarke replies, blushing. 

“You were horny, you mean,” Lexa retorts. She looks horrified for a minute when she realizes what's she said and that it's no longer her place to say it.

“That, too,” Clarke agrees, falling into a big smile. The response has the intended effect of making Lexa relax, and they laugh together at the memory.

She's surprised when Lexa counters, “Though it can't top the first year of college, when she stopped by your dorm and you were in...”

“Those cheap little handcuffs,” Clarke finishes, breaking out into laughter that’s maybe a bit too loud. It draws the attention of the room. “From the dollar store. God. I just remember them breaking completely when I jolted up. I thought my mom was going to murder you. But I guess that sight will haunt her forever,” she ends delicately. 

Lexa laughs with her, but quickly comes to a stop and stares at her solemnly. For once, Clarke isn't sure what she's thinking.

“Can you two please actually participate in the _delivery of our firstborn_?” Anya hisses in an undertone-- probably so Raven won't hear, though Raven is moaning too much to hear anyway. She has been for as long as Clarke can remember being in the room.

They break away remorsefully, separating to different sides of the hospital bed, and settle in for the final hours. Lexa gives her a few guilty glances, but Clarke is too distracted to think about what that means exactly. It’s loud. There's so much screaming, laughing, and crying from everyone.

And finally, there's the _pushing_. 

After all of that difficult, worry-inducing buildup, Raven grits her teeth, socks Anya painfully in the arm, gives the loudest scream yet, pushes once, and the baby is out. Anya sobs. 

It’s the only time to date that Clarke’s seen it happen. And unless they’re planning on more, it’s probably the only time she ever will. But even Clarke is tearing up-- maybe from the relief of it finally happening; she didn’t know labor was so fucking horrible or long. But when she clutches Raven's shoulder and stares at the beautiful baby boy that's on her chest rooting around for something to suckle, she thinks all of it may just be worth it.

Because he’s tiny and brown and perfect. He's just a little thing, but he's the future. Something they can all help mold and create. 

Clarke watches as Lexa helps Anya cut the umbilical cord and they all grin like idiots. After he is taken away for a brief moment to be cleaned up, he's returned to Anya. Raven, exhausted (rightfully so), has passed out cold in the meantime. Anya holds him for a bit before giving him to Lexa.

Everyone is crying and distracted so they don't notice when a tear that rolls down Clarke’s cheek is wiped quickly away. It's not like they can tell what she's crying about anyway. She doesn't mean to be selfish, to detract from what's important, which absolutely is this moment, but something about the way Lexa stares so happily at the baby-- the way she plays with his little fingers-- is making it particularly hard to focus. 

It wrecks her.

 _She_ was supposed to be Mrs. Greenwood.

And Lexa was supposed to be looking at _their_ child like she is looking at Raven and Anya’s.

But it didn't work out that way, and Lexa isn't looking at their child, so she's got to come to terms with that. Clarke's future isn't in the past. It's unraveling in front of her-- here, right now. 

“Do you want to hold him?” Lexa asks her.

“Yes,” Clarke whispers.

Lexa begins to pass him over Raven’s slumbering body, but presumably frightened by how small and fragile he looks under the harsh hospital lights, stops and tiptoes to Clarke's side of the bed. Then Lexa stands close and offers him to Clarke, who gently takes him. He's so, so miniscule. And he really is perfect.

“I love his little hands,” Lexa says, leaning over Clarke to play with his fingers again. 

He’s surprisingly strong, but his hand can only wrap around one single finger. Clarke turns to look at her, and Lexa’s eyes flicker between the two faces in front of her appreciatively, but then her smile falls off as she withdraws from the scene, dropping his hand, to cover whatever emotion it is that she's feeling so hard.

Clarke closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, she looks at the little baby and murmurs, “You're gorgeous, precious.”

Raven stirs then, and looks up almost territorially. Clarke, smiling proudly, puts the baby on her chest immediately. Raven relaxes and cradles the baby, smiling at him as Anya looks on.

“His name is Sebastián,” Raven announces. Clarke thinks it’s a gorgeous name. “And I couldn't have done this without all of you, so thank you for being here for me. For us,” Raven adds, and starts bawling. 

Anya looks at Raven proudly. 

Raven and Anya and Sebastián are a family.

“That was a long process," Anya says, eyes flickering between Clarke and Lexa. "You both should go home. Eat. Rest,” she adds.

“Yeah,” Clarke replies. It's sometime after 2am.

“I am about to fall over,” Lexa succeeds after a beat. “Do you have everything you need?” 

“We'll be fine,” Anya replies, sitting on the bed. She puts one arm around Raven and another on Sebastián’s fragile little back. Clarke recognizes they probably need some bonding time alone. Birth is such an invasive process-- like a colonization of the body.

“My phone is on if you need anything,” Lexa says. She steps outside to peel the messy scrubs off.

“Mine too,” Clarke adds. “Even if that's just a milkshake and fries. Or diapers? Whatever.”

“Thank you, Clarke,” Anya says, looking into her eyes long enough to let her know she's apologizing for what happened. For what she’s said.

Clarke nods in acceptance. She won't hold a grudge about it. Tensions were high, and Anya was trying to protect her sister after all. That’s something she can respect.

They leave together, her and Lexa, but Clarke’s already on her phone looking for an Uber. 

Lexa side-eyes her, and says, “I'm hungry.”

“Me too,” Clarke says, distracted. She's tired, so, so tired, and trying to type in her location.

“Want to go to the Pancake House?” 

Clarke lets her phone fall to her side. “Now?”

Lexa nods. “I'm craving breakfast food.” 

She licks her lips, and Clarke quickly looks away.

Clarke remembers _that_ face. 

She goes red, and considers the proposal. “Costia wouldn't mind?” she asks hesitantly.

Lexa shrugs. “Don't you think we should be friends, Clarke?”

Clarke gives her a doubtful look, but ruminates on the manner for barely five seconds before saying, “Alright. We can eat some friendly pancakes together.”

Lexa smiles, and it's not small or dull.

It's big. It splits her face open, and makes her look like she's sixteen and in love again.

Clarke sighs at the sight. 

She's absolutely fucked.


	4. Act IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that so far this has been a sad and entirely angst-ridden story. It kind of just poured out randomly one night and I couldn’t stop, but it is a NEW FREAKING LEVEL of sadness and turmoil that I didn’t know I was capable of and damn near kills me sometimes to write. But what can I say? Life isn’t full of rainbows and sparkles all the time. Shit has gotta be real. There’s bad and good, and it oftens comes in unequal doses.
> 
> That being said, I do know what these characters mean to some of us. I’m queer myself, and I was too heartbroken at how they were handled on the show. I think it’s why I write about them. I can promise that nobody else will die, but unfortunately, I can’t say who Lexa ends up with because that is a major question that drives the plot forward. Lexa and Clarke are beloved (definitely by me), but also romanticized I think. (I'm guilty of doing it, too.) They’re human though-- they’re imperfect. I think all of us can agree sometimes we’re needy, selfish, think about the past, consider a different present/future than the one we’re getting, etc. We’re complicated and multifaceted. We’re capable of anything we can muster up the strength to do. Essentially, this story is about the chaos that happens when two people find themselves forced-- perhaps unwillingly-- together by the universe. I understand if that’s too much or too hard to handle. Above all, please protect your hearts as you must. Your personal well-being is way more important than reading this. But if you can deal with the angst, stick with it. It’s been painful, and will continue to be so, but the endgame is happiness. And thank you so much for your kind and constructive words (and kudos!)... it means the world to me! Truly-- thank you for reading. <3 
> 
> ALSO WARNING: recreational (marijuana) drug use ahead

Clarke gets to sit in the front seat. She's glad, but she isn't exactly sure what she's doing. It feels weird sitting where Costia sat just yesterday. But it's also 2am in the morning, and there's a dreamy sense to it all. She's getting waffles with the one who got away.

Or really-- the one she left.

Or _technically_ \-- the one she left, but also the one who let her leave. 

Neither of them fought for each other. Clarke should have, though. She really should have. But fir her, there was a never ending supply of grief. And what she thought was cheating. She was tongue-tied and angry.

Her chest of grief had cracked right open again at Finn’s death. It was a drunk driver, which Clarke thinks darkly is at least easier to accept than her own mother killing her father. But Clarke finds the biggest regret of her life has nothing to do with death. It's not leaving her mother high and dry either-- even though that should probably be at the very top of the list-- or her friends.

It's leaving _Lexa_.

She feels horrible about that, because how selfish of her to assign more weight, more importance, to someone per her own flawed grading system, but the fact remains that she has done so naturally-- subconsciously. Clarke's not even sure where they stand after the last 14 hours. She wonders if Costia and Lexa live together-- if she's waiting at home for her. She doesn't want to be that person.

Can they really be friends as is?

Clarke doesn't know.

It's easy to get around at this time in the morning, so it’s only a five minute pop to Pancake House. They used to come here as a big group in college-- sprawling out, ordering endless refills of coffee, and generally acting like they owned the place. 

After they get out of the car, Clarke stares vacantly at the huge neon sign. The capital P is a pig with a pancake for a hat. It's flickering.

“This brings up some memories,” Lexa says, sighing. She smiles wistfully-- or maybe just sadly. Clarke thinks she looks exhausted and older in the neon pink glow. On her, older is even more charming(ly attractive). She feels a pang of longing for her, but she looks away, and nods. The place also brings up some questions for her-- the first of which is what the hell is she doing? It's 2am. Good decisions don't happen at 2am. But Clarke guesses if she somehow ended up here with Lexa, she might as well stuff her face. She’s absolutely starving. 

Lexa holds the door for her as they go in. Clarke shouldn't think anything of it as Lexa does it for anyone, young or old, male or female, but it somehow still matters, though she summons a grunt in response. She’s beyond tired and filled up with the kind of regrets only old age and mistakes bring-- and about three seconds away from doing something very, very stupid. 

They sit at the regular table. 

Clarke can’t help think about the different versions of themselves (and their friends) that have sat in this crusty c-shape booth. She can still remember all of them repeatedly squeezing together into this beige monstrosity to study, or cry, or process a drunk night out. 

There are so many memories lurking in this town.

The walls blurs to a different world.

Clarke knows that in high school Lexa would be wearing a letterman’s jacket and too much eyeliner. She would be smirking, and if anyone looked at her wrong, she’d fight them (and she always won). The instinct is acquired from having to defend herself in various abusive foster homes. It lessens when she comes to D.C. (when Anya reaches the age of 20 and is able to finally be granted guardianship). With stability and age, Lexa becomes extremely focused and reserved-- or maybe just calculating-- and she works hard to improve her situation. She goes to therapy and thrives.

Clarke knows that in high school she would be wearing a baggy hoodie (she was self-conscious) and carrying around a torn, raggedy sketchbook that went absolutely everywhere with her. She’s passionate about art and kindness and the world. Nothing bad has ever happened to this Clarke, but she feels for Lexa, who is broken and wild and determined to have her.

(Clarke always gives herself willingly.)

Today, Lexa's wearing a blue zipped hoodie, white t-shirt, and black jeans. It's the most casual outfit-- and most Lexa-- that Clarke's seen her in lately. It was probably worn to go on a relaxing trip to the cafe with her fiancée, but it didn't quite work out that way.

The waiter comes, and they order. 

Lexa gets a Chai tea and blueberry pancakes, which is entirely predictable. Clarke gets a orange juice, coffee, and strawberry waffles, which is new (by a few years).

“Can we have some blueberry syrup too, please?” Clarke adds, smiling weakly.

“Of course, sweetness. Coming your way,” the waitress, Pauline, replies.

“Thanks.” Clarke side-eyes Lexa, who is staring at her in shock. “What?” she adds. 

“You remembered that?”

Clarke shrugs. “I never forgot.” 

A kind of grief seems to pass over Lexa’s face, and Clarke tenses, which frankly just hurts because she's so tired. “You used to always get French toast,” Lexa says.

“People change,” Clarke says then winces. Maybe that was a dramatic thing to say.

“Do they?” Lexa asks.

Clarke focuses on her hands folded in her lap, but eventually murmurs, “Sometimes.” 

Lexa is staring again when she probes, “Did you?” 

“We’ve all changed,” Clarke replies, raising an eyebrow. Their waitress brings their drinks, and they both busy themselves with consuming them.

Lexa swirls the content of her cup around, and eventually asks, “So, can we be _friends_?” 

“If you want to be friends, you can't ask me loaded questions like that,” Clarke declares. She takes a long sip of coffee. “We can if we only talk about… the weather. And um. Baseball.”

“I watch _basketball_ ,” Lexa corrects with a laugh. “You have to know by now that baseball is the one with bases and bats.”

Clarke flashes her a small smile, and yawns. “Right. Obviously. It's late.”

“You don't even follow sports,” Lexa scoffs with a smirk. “So, that's off the table.”

“Well, we can't talk just about the weather. You like the red and white ones, right?” Clarke retorts. “They won last week. I think. If they were the same red and white ones…”

“Clarke, you're talking about the football game Bellamy made you watch. Football.” 

“Oh.” She yawns.

“And their colors are actually yellow and red,” Lexa points out, shaking her head.

“Sure,” murmurs Clarke sleepily. She's useless when she's this tired. “By the way, why were you there that night? Bellamy said you only went on the weekends.” 

“It was a stressful day.” Lexa stares into her cup, and asks quietly, “Were you talking about me?” 

When Clarke sighs, Lexa's eyes dart up to her face, to her eyes. “Just for a second,” Clarke admits. 

Lexa sits back to examine her. It's a little intimidating-- arousing. “What did you say?” 

Clarke swallows. “I said… uh… well, I asked him why he brought me here.” She's so tired she’s practically brain dead. And there’s no filter to stop the truth from tumbling out before she can even consider telling it.

Lexa’s known this-- get Clarke even a little sleepy and she’ll pour her heart out-- and is exploiting her knowledge when she questions,“You were upset about seeing me?” 

Clarke shrugs. “No. I didn't want to be caught off guard. I didn't… I didn't know you would be there. I mean I was a little upset, but things are… things are different now that I know what I do. So, you were right,” Clarke says, desperate for a turn of pace, “About Bellamy.”

She shouldn't be talking about this with Lexa. 

Because even though Bellamy Blake can be a hurricane, he's not the weather.

And it's the entirely wrong thing to bring up.

Their waitress comes with their food.

After she's gone, Lexa unfreezes, shifting. She sets her cup down and stares at her pancakes like she's concentrating on absorbing this information. “Bellamy asked you out?” she surmises.

“Yeah,” Clarke admits.

Lexa feigns casual. “And you said...?” 

“I said he was like my brother.”

Lexa sighs, and sags back a few inches. “Good. Don't date him, Clarke. I know how he treats the girls he’s with. He talks about them at the bar. You deserve better than that.”

“I would never fuck Bellamy Blake,” Clarke replies. It's way too blunt, and she grimaces at the delivery (and crudeness) of it. It’s not even an image she wants to entertain.

The blueberry syrup held tightly in Lexa’s hand somehow pops into the air and lands on her lap. She looks down, and mutters in frustration, “Fuck me.” 

“What…?“ Clarke asks _then_ sees Lexa’s got syrup all over herself. Her pants. 

“I'll have to take these off,” Lexa says.

“No, don't do that,” Clarke replies immediately. She looks at Lexa’s pants, and grabbing napkins, slides around to help. She plots at the sticky mess, but she's not sure how to fix it because it's soaking in everywhere. Lexa grabs her wrist, and it makes Clarke’s stomach drop just like it used to. They’re so close and Lexa is looking right in her eyes. 

Lexa’s eyes are dark emeralds.

And her hand is shaking.

“Don't do _that_ ,” Lexa says.

“Right,” Clarke breathes. She’s frozen. “Sorry. Sorry...”

“Don't apologize,” Lexa counters, letting her wrist go and patting it awkwardly. “Finish your waffles, Clarke.” She unbuckles her belt and levels her with an amused look as she adds, “I have shorts on.” 

Clarke scoots back over, wide-eyed, and nods. She works on finishing the waffles as Lexa takes off her pants. She's wearing athletic shorts. They're tight.

Clarke sighs. Everything is hard. A wave of exhaustion washes over her, and she frowns. She has a random craving for hashbrowns, and says as much out loud. Lexa nods and flags down the waitress, ordering two plates. It's dreamlike the way she glides away-- this whole day has been slightly surreal. 

She yawns again and her eyes water. She leans her head against the side of the booth.

Lexa zips her hoodie off and throws it at her. 

Clarke barely manages to catch it before lazily raising an eyebrow.

“Use that to nap while we wait.”

“Okay,” Clarke replies with no hesitation, wadding it up under her head and laying down. A five minute nap is exactly what she needs. She watches Lexa under the table-- and her feet are tapping the floor slowly and methodologically-- but then her eyes are shut.

 

Clarke dreams she’s in a car crash, and the prolonged clashing sound jerks her awake. 

She's flying through a window shield.

She blinks. 

She's not. She's fine. 

The noise is really just a phone ringing continuously. Clarke’s drooled on someone’s bare ankle, and that unfortunate person has their hand resting on the back of her head. She sits up. She shifts to look at Lexa, who wakes with such a scared expression that Clarke leans forward, voice husky with sleep, and murmurs, “It's okay. You're safe.”

Lexa sometimes has horrible nightmares about things she can’t control, but now her face relaxes into a smile. She reaches for out Clarke with her fingertips-- but then she blinks again, and her palm shoots back as her eyes slowly widen in comprehension. 

Her reaction causes Clarke to take her hand off her arm (she wonders when it got there?) and scoot away. 

Fuck.

_Distance._

_(Engaged.)_

But maybe not after this epic fuck up?

There's light streaming into the Pancake House. It's late morning, and it's busy. Clarke has no idea how they both managed to sleep through the noise.

“I…” Lexa shakes her head, and checks her phone. Clarke watches a frown form. It means someone has noticed.

“What happened?” she questions.

“I must have nodded off… and we just... didn't wake up…?” Lexa replies, questioning, looking anxious and conscience-stricken. It's not the answer to the actual question she asked, but Clarke nods all the same.

It’s not really her business anymore.

Their waitress walks up, and grins at them. 

Clarke wants to slap her, but she’s ignorant-- and doesn't know what she's done. What she's made them both look like.

“Why didn't you wake us up?” Clarke asks.

“Y’all looked exhausted, sweetie, and you were leaning on each other so cutely that I decided to let you sleep. You slept through some awful commotions, bless your hearts,” Pauline says.

“Thanks,” Clarke replies darkly. She sighs. “I'll have a coffee to go. Two sugars, please.”

The waitress nods, and walks off.

Lexa says, “I need to-- ” 

Clarke holds her palm up. She's scrolling through five missed calls from Raven. “Go. I'm getting an Uber. I'll get the bill. My treat.”

“No,” Lexa says automatically, taking her wallet out of soggy pants to throw a fifty on the table. Clarke rolls her eyes. Lexa shakes her head, gathering everything, and clearly hesitates before she takes a deep breath to add, “Things are different now. They have to be.” 

Clarke’s heart climbs in anticipation.

But then Lexa gets up to leave-- and Clarke realizes she's saying things are different because of Costia. Not between them. And Lexa walks away again.

Lexa looks back once, but Clarke is still staring at the space she just occupied and doesn't notice. She knows she deserves to be left, but damn, she wishes they could find a way to stop doing it to each other.

She once again feels the pain Lexa once did. 

And it's acute. Haunting.

It's 10:16am and she has shit to do, but Clarke drinks coffee and plays around with soggy cold hash browns until noon.

 

Clarke spends the rest of the day in a fog.

She's been an idiot.

She calls Raven on her Uber of shame home.

Apparently, Costia had returned to the hospital around 8am. Apparently, Anya had proceeded to tell her Lexa left several hours ago-- and mentioned who she left with. Apparently, they looked like cheaters.

Everyone thinks they’ve done something they haven’t.

Clarke is crying before Raven drops the tone and starts to genuinely ease up. 

“Okay, okay, it's just a little hard to believe is all, Clarke, but if you say so, it must be."

"It is true.”

“And you _really_ fell asleep? At Pancake House? Of all the places, why would you go there?” 

“We were hungry for breakfast food,” Clarke counters, wiping her eyes. “God, there's probably camera footage of us or something. The waitress saw us, and she thought we were tired, so she didn't wake us up. It was a stupid mistake.” She hiccups. “Did Costia sound upset?”

“I don't know. She called Anya.” Raven pauses for a second, and Clarke tenses for the blow. “Anya said she sounded ready to murder somebody though.”

Clarke closes her eyes, tears bubbling up and sliding down her cheeks.

Destruction. 

She's destroyed something _again_.

“Look, I know what it feels like, Clarke, and it isn't worth the pain it causes.”

Clarke huffs then starts crying louder. The Uber driver stares at her in the central rearview mirror. “I promise we didn't, Rae. I swear I'd tell you if we did.”

“And I believe you somehow. But I'm also not an idiot, Clarke,” Raven says, and her heart sinks. “There's obviously something between you and Lexa. I don't think it ever stopped.”

Clarke lets out a raspy breath. “Yeah.”

“But you have to make it stop. You've got to move on from this-- from Lexa. For Costia.”

Clarke is silent-- contemplating how to do that. It sounds improbable, but not impossible.

“Listen, I know a girl,” Raven drawls. Clarke can hear the baby crying, and she feels horrible because it's only like ten hours post-birth and Raven is already taking care of her. “Let me set you up on a date, boo.”

“I don't know, Rae.”

“Please? Just try it? She's totally nice-- and hot. You'll love her. Try her once at least.”

“Okay, fine, I'll try it,” Clarke replies. It’ll be good for her to focus on someone else.

“Great. I'll get you the deets later,” Raven says. “I have to go now. You okay?”

“Fine. Go give that baby some loving for me,” Clarke says, unable to inject her voice with enough happiness to be convincing.

Raven sighs. “I love you, Clar.”

It’s been forever since Raven called her that. She always drawls out the r like a pirate.

“I love you too, Rae,” she replies, and disconnects the call. 

The traffic makes it a long ride home.

 

Clarke spends the rest of the day painting. She listens to loud, angsty music and drinks tea, and even if isn't exactly soothing, it's all very appropriate and accurate to her mood. After she can't possibly paint anymore, she finally puts everything away and her phone rings.

It’s Wells-- the only decent friend she had managed to make and keep in California. And he’s concerned.

“What happened?” Wells asks after he hears her tone. 

They had talked for hours about what happened here. Clarke had simply been forced to remember it. To consider it. Sometimes, to relive it. 

“A lifetime,” she finally replies.

“Should I come out there? Bring you back?” 

Clarke scrunches her face up. “What? No. I know you’re busy with your practice.” 

“There are more important things, Clarke.” 

“I would hate myself if I took you away from your patients, Wellsy. They need you.” 

Wells runs his own reduced fee clinic for patients below the poverty line. It’s his passion in life, and it suits him well. He makes a real difference, which is more than most people can say. 

Well sighs. “I just worry about you.” 

“Don’t we all?” Clarke replies darkly. She shakes her head, sighing, and adds, “I’ll be fine. My problem is that I just keep being stupid. I’ll smarten up eventually.” 

“You’re brilliant,” Wells assures her. “Take it easy on yourself for once, okay? Not everything is your fault. Don’t let them beat you up for mistakes you made years ago.”

Clarke takes a deep, calming breath, and replies, “You’re right.” There’s quietness for a beat, and she adds, “Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.” 

Then Clarke avoids her problems and they chat for nearly a half hour about California, Well’s practice, and her new job. It’s comforting. Familar.

When they disconnect, Clarke calls her mom.

Clarke invites them to dinner tomorrow, and her mother, of course, accepts happily.

She falls asleep early.

 

The next day, Octavia wakes her.

She walks to the door in a long shirt and flings it open. Octavia’s wearing combat boots (old habits die hard), and she's got a bag of 12 assorted donuts from Donut Dunk.

“I heard about what happened,” she says.

Clarke holds the door open. “I want the strawberry one,” she replies.

“I know. I got you six.”

Clarke smiles at her. “You're the best.”

“I also brought a joint, because I can't eat six donuts otherwise,” Octavia adds.

Clarke nods, and smoothes hair out of her face with a palm. “It's been awhile.”

“It’ll be like old times,” Octavia retorts then smiles. “Can we do it in here?” 

Clarke looks around. “Let's go on the deck.”

They smoke the small joint, and even though Clarke coughs like she's going to lose a lung, it's so warm and lovely in the sun. They finish, and go inside and each eat precisely six donuts.

Afterwards, Clarke says, “That was a mistake.” She grips her stomach dramatically.

“I’m a trainer. I knew that before we started. But sometimes you got to say fuck it.”

“I agree. Do you want to do some yoga?” Clarke asks, holding her stomach like she’s pregnant. “It'll help us digest the pile of donuts inside our bellies.”

Octavia shrugs. “Sure. I usually do karate.”

“You're such a badass,” Clarke counters.

Octavia rolls her eyes, and while Clarke loads up a yoga tutorial on her TV, she lights a few candles Clarke has laying around. 

“So, what happened?” Octavia finally asks.

Clarke side-eyes her as she lays two mats down. “Nothing.”

“Not an answer that looks good on you, Clarke,” Octavia says, tilting her head. “Did you… ?” 

“We were hungry, okay,” Clarke babbles out in a rush. “I know it sounds unbelievable, but we fell asleep at Pancake House. We were exhausted, and it was supposed to be a five minute nap while we waited for hash browns, but the waitress recognized us and let us sleep because we looked so tired.” She looks at Octavia sadly, waiting for the disbelief. 

“I believe you, Clarke,” Octavia replies. “I can't imagine how it feels for Costia, though.”

“Shitty?” Clarke guesses-- knows.

Octavia nods. “She comes to my gym. Her and Lexa.”

Clarke groans. “They go to the gym together? God. That's so disgustingly cute.”

Octavia looks down and smiles. “I don't know. I don't know what to think. Costia’s nice, but their love is so… quiet I’m not even sure it exists. Costia hangs all over her, but... you and Lexa...” She glances at Clarke, who is looking at her way too intently, and stops talking.

“Lexa and I… what?” Clarke probes.

“I just always knew you guys were in love.”

The hopeful look disappears as Clarke sighs. “Too bad she's unavailable.”

Octavia shrugs. “It’s an unfortunate situation.”

Clarke’s eager for her torture, and Octavia’s willing to share for whatever reason, so she quietly asks, “How did she propose to Costia?” 

“She didn't. They agreed on it. Neither of them even have an engagement ring.”

“Romantic,” Clarke snorts. Knowing that makes her feel a bit better.

Octavia shrugs. “I train them so I hear a lot.”

“Has Costia mentioned me?” 

“Oh, you're definitely on her radar,” Octavia replies, blowing some hair out of her face.

Clarke winces. “That bad?” 

“Things have been tense between them since you got back,” Octavia admits.

Clarke nods. “What does that mean?” 

“I don't know.”

“Probably that I'm a horrible person...”

“You're a person,” Octavia counters. “Comes with good and bad. We all do terrible shit.”

“Can I ask a terrible question?” 

Octavia nods, and Clarke finds the strength to say, “Do you think Lexa and I… do you think we could ever go back?” 

Octavia tutts. “Can't go backward in this life, Clarke. Only forward.”

“Well… do you think we can go forward?” 

Octavia shrugs. She loves Clarke, but she doesn't want to give her too much hope.

Clarke shakes her head and mutters, “It was a stupid question.” 

Octavia sees the hurt behind her eyes, and gives her a gentle smile. “You're not stupid, Clarke. Hope isn't one way or the other.”

Clarke nods, but she doesn't quite believe it.. “Thanks, but wait, can I ask another sort of terrible question?" she adds quickly. "It’s about you this time."

Octavia wearily nods.

“What happened? With Darwin’s…?”

Octavia’s eyes harden and she looks away. “There were complications. Both of us almost died, but… we were strong. And we didn't.” 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke replies immediately. “Raven's birth was excruciating and there were no complications, so I can only imagine. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help." 

Octavia looks at the floor. “Yeah. But it wouldn’t have changed anything.” 

“I’m still sorry, though,” Clarke says, eyes steady and serious. “I’m going to be there for you now.” 

“Thank you, Clarke,” Octavia replies, flashing her teeth in a slow smile. "Likewise."

They go through the yoga tutorial.

 

They lounge the day away watching cheesy television and recovering from their donut binge. Octavia, saying she misses her kid, leaves right before dinner. Clarke changes into something nicer, and makes some fancy pasta, which is quick and easy, and waits.

Abby and Marcus are holding hands when they come in. It's cute, but actions like that-- actions that were supposed to be only with and for her father-- still give Clarke pause. She hides that though, and hugs Abby. She shakes Marcus’ hand and gives him a nod.

“This is a beautiful place, Clarke,” Marcus says, looking around.

Abby nods. “You've decorated it well.”

Clarke gives them a quick tour, seeing as how there's basically four rooms, and they sit down to eat. It's all generalities for awhile. She’d realized Marcus was also a surgeon when she’d seen him in scrubs one morning, but she learns he works at a different hospital.

She also learns they were married in a courthouse.

And then they get around to Raven’s birth.

“She did very well. I stopped by to see the baby. He's gorgeous,” Abby declares. “That reminds me. I brought Lexa’s jacket. I know she'd never come to get it herself.”

“Can you blame her, mom?” Clarke asks lightly, forking some excellent angel hair pasta into her mouth. “You got a kind of crazy look on your face when you dared her to try. What was up with that by the way?” 

Abby raises her eyebrows. “You said she cheated on you.”

Clarke feels her face slide into a frown she can't avoid. “Turns out she didn't.”

Abby really looks at her, examining her, but Clarke takes a sip of wine to shield her face.

“Well, she's still not good enough for you anyway, Clarke,” her mother finally says.

Clarke snorts. She isn't sixteen years old anymore. “That's rich considering I'm the one who ruined everything. I don't deserve her.”

“Either way, she's got a fiancée.”

“Do you really think I forgot?” Clarke snaps. It's harsher than she's intended, and she knows because suddenly Marcus is fascinated by the bowl filled with bananas in the middle of the dining table. She sighs. “I didn't mean to be… I'm sorry.”

Abby shrugs, but Clarke can see a flicker of hurt there. “You seem to have only knee-jerk reactions when it comes to Lexa.”

Clarke feels a spark of real anger that she covers with an obviously fake smile. She drains the rest of her wine. “Let's talk about anything other than that,” she finally replies.

Her mother looks at her sadly, and Clarke knows in that moment that she does take their feelings for each other seriously. Clarke had never really been sure if Abby was being protective or homophobic. It helps.

“Raven’s going to set me up with someone,” Clarke offers. “Someone else.”

Abby’s face lightens. “That's wonderful, Clarke. If that doesn't work out, let me know. I know of an amazing medical intern who would love the chance to meet you.”

Clarke nods. “I'll keep that in mind.”

(She will never, ever do that.) 

They change the topic.

When they leave, it's late and Clarke is exhausted. And it's her first day of work tomorrow. When her phone rings, she answers it dully without even looking. 

“Clarke?” Raven greets.

“Hey, Rae. What's up?” 

“You were serious about the date, right?”

Clarke sighs. “Um. Yeah... sure.”

“Okay, good. I've set it up for Thursday night. Does that work for you?” 

“Sounds-- yeah.”

“Great! Her name is Ontari. She's kind of... intense, but her heart is in the right place. Is it alright if she comes over to yours for… say a romantic candlelit dinner or something? Can you cook?” 

“You want me to light candles for this girl?” Clarke asks, laughing. “She better be good.”

“She is good,” Raven counters, and then sounds less confident. “Also, intense... I think you'll like her. You can actually cook, right? I only remember you eating popcorn and poptarts in college.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yes, I've learned how to cook. What is she like?” 

“Um… passionate. Intense.”

“You keep saying that, Raven,” Clarke points out. She sighs and looks out on the horizon. “It's kind of worrying me, you know? What does intense mean? How do you know her?”

“Well, she works with Anya…”

Clarke closes her eyes. “So, she works with Anya and Lexa. She works _for_ them.”

“Yeah,” Raven admits quietly-- guiltily.

Clarke sighs. “Sure. Why not? Make this even more complicated for everyone.”

“Look, I know the coincidence is less than ideal, but I showed her your picture and she thinks you're cute. Sometimes, it's just that simple, you know? She's intense about what she loves. She's just an aggressive person... I guess. I don't know a lot about her, but-- will you or won't you? I need an answer either way.” 

“Yes,” Clarke groans.

Raven makes an excited sound, and says, “Yes! You won't regret it, Clar!” 

Clarke reallt wonders about that. 

She paints until the early morning hours, nervous, and gets only a few hours of sleep.

 

The week passes surprisingly quickly, and after struggling the first day, Clarke gets a handle on her job pretty quickly. Dealing with the gallery, arranging (and rearranging) art, and talking to the patrons and artists has always suited her to a ridiculous degree. She’s a natural. She just loves being around art. It calms and centers her in a way nothing other than painting does. And at least if she hasn't found her perfect person, she's found satisfaction in her true calling.

That's enough. Mostly. Sometimes.

Clarke's off on Thursday and Friday, so she spends all of Thursday eagerly scrubbing down her apartment. She tries to imagine Ontari. Except she always ends up actually imaging Lexa coming and saving her, in a way. But then again, maybe Ontari will enable to Clarke to finally be able to forget about Lexa. Maybe Ontari will be beautiful. Maybe she’ll have a genuine connection to Ontari. Perhaps she will make Clarke feel. 

Clarke sighs, and keeps scrubbing.

 

Clarke’s wearing a dress that makes her feel equal parts confident and poodle. It's pale green lace on the top and ruffles on the bottom. But it works with her hair.(She hopes.) She's practically shaking from all of the nervous energy pacing through her. 

Ontari is set to be here in five minutes.

Here.

In her home.

Clarke thinks that's just a lot to handle, but suddenly, there's a knock, and Clarke’s mouth pulls back in horror.

Ontari's _here_.

Clarke smoothes her hair, and gulps, and moves to answer the door.

Ontari is beautiful. Clarke kind of thinks for a minute that she looks like Lexa, but she erases that thought from her head. Ontari’s completely different. Ontari has red roses in her hand, and greets Clarke with a kiss on the cheek on the way in. It's very… _forward_.

“Hi,” Clarke says awkwardly. “I'm--”

“Clarke,” Ontari interrupts, nodding.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “This is kind of weird, but it's good to meet you, Ontari.”

“It's nice to meet you too,” Ontari says, and her eyes linger obvioualy on Clarke's breasts. Though they are on display, it feels a visual molestation. Clarke smiles to cover her discomfort and closes the door.

“Do you like chicken and broccoli…?” she asks. 

“I'm a vegetarian, Clarke,” Ontari replies.

Clarke blanches in pure panic. “Oh my god. I shouldn't have assumed--” 

“It's fine,” Ontari interrupts again. Being interrupted is definitely a pet peeves, Clarke thinks. “There are other things to do, right?” Ontari adds, producing a smile that looks almost obscene.

“Yeah, of course,” Clarke replies nervously. “I can make you pasta or something?”

“I'd like that, Clarke.”

Whereas Lexa’s voice caresses her name, tongue skillfully rolling the vowels that come out so fully, the way her name sounds in Ontari’s mouth makes Clarke want to throw up a little. It sounds like she's trying to recreate a bad porno. Still, she's passably cute. 

Maybe if she doesn't talk, this can actually work.

For distraction, Clarke sets some water to boil and gets out the noodles. Ontari slides up behind her and puts her hands around her waist. It's also way too much _way_ too fast.

“Um-- what... what are you doing?” Clarke asks.

“Just trying to get a feel for you,” Ontari says, breathing down her neck.

Clarke shudders, pulling away. “Why don't you go sit on the couch and get a feel for the TV remote? You can find something good to watch while I cook this.” 

Ontari takes her hands back stiffly. “I like a good challenge, Clarke,” she whispers. “Makes it more exciting, don't you think?” But then thankfully, she goes and sits down.

Clarke rolls her eyes toward the heavens, and slumps against the counter.

Raven set her up on a date with an _insane_ person. But Clarke just has to get through this and then she can refuse any other dates. She can become a spinster and get some cats, and write a book about her horrible life choices. 

Clarke whips up the pasta in record time and brings it to Ontari, who smiles at her. She tries to smile back, fails, and grabs her own dinner. They eat together in front of the screen. Ontari’s turned it onto Animal Planet. TV isn't exactly what she planned for, but there's no way she's lighting candles now. She notices with a cringe that there's hippopotami mating each other. 

Seeing this, Ontari raises her eyebrows and proceeds to elbow Clarke directly in the nipple-- to which she exclaims, “Fuck!”

“Oh, I'm so strong,” Ontari says with a laugh. She throws an arm around the couch-- really around Clarke’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“I… yeah. I will be,” Clarke mutters, rubbing her chest. She shakes her head at the TV.

“So, listen, we should…”

Clarke lifts an eyebrow. “... What?”

“You know.”

“No… I wouldn't be asking if I knew.”

“We should get to know each other better,” Ontari clarifies.

“Sure, yeah. That sounds like a great idea.”

Ontari leans forward, and Clarke leans backward. “What are you doing?” Clarke asks.

“Getting to know you better,” Ontari repeats.

“I thought you meant like a conversation…”

“No. I want to taste your lips.”

“Oh… well, we should probably have a conversation before… if that were to happen.”

Ontari leans back with a petulant expression. “What do you want to know?” 

“Well…” Clarke's still considering that when there's a knock on the door. She shoots Ontari an apologetic glance-- she's trying despite how ludicrous this is-- and bounces up curiously. She opens the door.

It’s Lexa.

“Um,” Clarke says.

Lexa looks sheepish. “Hi, Clarke. Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to get my jacket if you had it? I have an important meeting tomorrow and it's my best one.” 

Clarke swings the door open a little more, and Lexa spots Ontari. “What is… what is Ontari doing in your apartment?” Lexa asks, blinking frantically like she’s seeing something wrong.

“She’s um…”

“We’re on a date, boss!” Ontari calls, waving.

Lexa frowns at her. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Clarke shrugs. Her brow furrows. “Raven. How'd you know where I live?”

“I… borrowed Raven's phone,” Lexa admits, looking at her shoes. “She was with the baby.”

“Wow. Sneaky boss!” Ontari replies.

Clarke rolls her eyes.

Lexa clears her throat. “You look nice.”

“I'll look for your jacket,” Clarke replies. 

And she does. 

Except she can't find it anywhere.

Lexa stands awkwardly at the door while Clarke searches. It takes so long that eventually Lexa says, “I'll come back later. I don't want to interrupt your...”

“Alright,” Clarke replies. “I'll drop it off for you at Raven's,” she adds. That way, Lexa has no reason to come back.

Lexa nods, and slides out the door like she never really was there. She's gone in a blink.

Clarke goes to shut the front door, and then she sees it: Lexa’s jacket hanging on the back of the door. No wonder she hadn’t seen it. 

“Hey, I found her jacket,” Clarke says to Ontari. “Let me go run it out to her really quick.”

Ontari nods.

And Clarke rushes out into the night.


	5. Act V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending immense amounts of love to all the queers in the U.S. today. <3 <3

Lexa isn't in the hallway, she isn't in the elevator, and no one is in the stairway.

Clarke clomps awkwardly down the entire five flights of stairs, barely managing not to break a leg in the fucking heels she chose to wear (never again), and gets to the parking lot. She spots a familiar BMW sitting in the lot, and consequently, a dark silhouette pacing near the trunk that Clarke instinctively knows to be Lexa by how she walks.

“Lexa,” Clarke says-- not managing to be loud enough for Lexa to actually hear her.

There's a huge pesky pothole she's been avoiding for ages, but tonight, she forgets exactly where it lies. She speeds up and in the dark unlit parking lot, it's impossible to see where she's going. 

Clarke trips in the very corner of the mammoth hole, and stumbles.

There's a disgusting cracking sound, which makes a wave of nausea rise in her belly, and she falls to the ground, letting out a scream.

Lexa’s head snaps to her.

“Clarke?” she breathes.

Clarke is crying-- she starts instantly from the pain. When Lexa gets close enough to hear this, she starts running. When she reaches Clark, she crouches down, putting a comforting hand on her back. “What happened, Clarke?” she asks, swallowing.

“Ankle,” Clarke grunts. Tears slide down her face as her vision blackens briefly.

It hurts.

She can't think.

She can't feel her foot.

Clarke has never felt physical pain like this.

And what has she done to deserve it? There's never a reprieve from the pain.

“I told you these shoes are ridiculous,” Lexa snaps, concern melting into anger, which transforms into tender remorse a second later. The sudden transformation gives Clarke whiplash. Lexa unbuckles and slips the offending shoes off as lightly as she can manage. Clarke whimpers as pain shoots up and down her ankle, and all she can think, despite the nearly suffocating pain, is...

 _Lexa’s touching me._

Lexa runs a soothing hand over her knee and adds, “Can you move your foot?”

Clarke tries, and curses loudly, clutching Lexa's forearm tightly in desperation. 

Lexa quickly supports her with an arm, and sighs, asking, “What were you even doing?”

“I was bringing you your jacket,” Clarke replies weakly. She’s managed to keep a firm clutch on the thing during the fall, but there's dirt smeared all over it. Clarke makes a note to get it dry cleaned since this is her fault (as usual).

Lexa shakes her head, and her eyes spark. "The jacket doesn't matter, Clarke. You matter. You need to be more careful.” 

“It was an accident, Lexa,” Clarke breathes, squinting and squirming through the pain.

“I know it was, I know,” she agrees, shaking her head. “But I'm starting to wonder,” she adds under breath (but she's so close that Clarke can hear). Lexa gets out her phone and shines the camera light on Clarke's ankle.

Clarke doesn't look.

Lexa jerks to her feet, and Clarke thinks she's about to just leave her there-- and god, it's the worst feeling to be left in so much pain.

She needs Lexa.

And Lexa doesn't leave. 

She takes the jacket from Clarke’s arms and makes her put it on. Clarke does-- it's another cold night-- even though movement is painful.

“Your ankle looks broken, which means this is going to hurt. Take a deep breath,” she says.

Then Lexa crouches down again, picks her up carefully in her arms, and carries her to the BMW. Clarke yelps, but closes her eyes-- it's dark anyway-- and tries to control her breathing. She can hear Lexa’s heartbeat, and like her own, it's fluttering around crazily.

“You have the worst luck lately, Clarke Griffin,” Lexa states dryly. She shakes her head like she literally can't believe it. “It keeps rubbing off on me.”

“Sorry,” Clarke whispers, and the tears in her eyes aren't from just the pain anymore.

Her bad luck started the day she left.

It's been a long time since.

“Don't apologize,” Lexa murmurs, looking down. Their faces are so close that Clarke can feel Lexa’s mouth near her chin. “It was an honest mistake.”

“I make a lot of mistakes though,” Clarke replies, closing her eyes and leaning against Lexa’s shoulder as she sobs.

“Everyone does,” Lexa counters. “But I know you have good intentions. The best.”

“Do I?” Clarke questions quietly.

Lexa doesn't answer because they get to the car and begin the painful process of getting Clarke into the backseat. After long moments of vomit-inducing movement, she finally reclines back, clutching her ankle, and Lexa darts into the front seat. Throwing a hand on the passenger seat, she peers quickly behind them and peels out of the parking lot.

The subtle jiggling of the car hurts her...

But being this close to Lexa kills.

“Fuck,” Clarke grits out. “Ontari.”

She’d been on a date.

“Don't worry about it. I'll call her from the hospital.” Lexa looks at her in the rearview mirror. “Were you enjoying your… the date? You know she works for me, right?” 

Clarke shrugs, giving a small cry when the car goes over a pothole. Goddamn potholes. “I know. Raven set it up. It was horrible. She was kind of aggressive? Very touchy.”

Lexa’s face darkens. “I know. She gets things done. She wasn't… she didn't try anything, did she?”

“Well,” Clarke hems, feeling like she might pass out.

“Well, Clarke?” Lexa prompts gently.

The feeling passes, and Clarke mumbles, “She seemed to think we were for sure going to-- um, makeout. Or have sex.”

“Were you?” Lexa deadpans.

“No, I wasn't planning on it,” Clarke admits.

“Do you want me to talk to her?" Lexa retorts darkly. "I can scare the shit out of her. She is my employee.” 

Clarke shakes her head. “I just won't see her again. She's not really my type anyway.”

“What even is your type?” Lexa counters. 

The car hits another pothole, and Clarke emits a pained gasp. The thought occurs to her that Lexa is just trying to distract her, but the pain is already doing a good job of that. She's so preoccupied, in fact, that she lets the real answer slip out without a thought.

“Someone like you.”

Lexa’s eyes lock onto her in the mirror, and Clarke-- grimacing, paling, weak-- stares back and can't even summon an apology. It fills her with relief to say out loud. It's therapeutic. And letting the truth out forces her to let go of Lexa Greenwood a little bit more every time she sees her and gives something else away.

It's the only way it hurts less.

Because letting go is her only option. And if things like this would stop happening, she actually could.

“Clarke,” Lexa just says-- like she's trying to reprimand her, but she doesn't really want to. And there's _another_ pothole-- goddamn this city-- and Clarke gives a full on scream. Lexa looks backwards in alarm. Everything seems to slow down and speed up as they veer to the right. There's a deafening crunch sound and they jerk forward to a stop. 

Clarke blinks. She breathes.

And then-- she can't stop screaming.

“Clarke! Clarke, are you okay?” Lexa asks, reaching backwards. It's not close enough, so she gets out of the car-- she’s managed to swerve into a fire hydrant of all things-- and opens the back door. “Is your ankle okay?” 

“I almost killed you,” Clarke finally gets out through the sobs. 

This is why she walks more often than not.

This is why doesn't deserve Lexa.

This is her _curse_. Her burden.

“But I was driving,” Lexa replies. “I jerked the wheel. I was an idiot and got distracted.”

“I almost killed you,” Clarke repeats, hysterical. “Don't you understand, Lexa? You have to stay away from me! Just leave me on the sidewalk and I'll call an ambulance!” 

“There is no chance in hell that I'm leaving you on the sidewalk in this condition, Clarke!” Lexa says much louder than usual, shaking her head furiously. “Don't even suggest it.”

“You have to get away--” 

“Clarke,” Lexa counters, ducking and climbing carefully over her legs to take her sobbing face in sweaty hands. “Clarke, focus, okay?” 

Clarke blinks through the tears, and mimics Lexa’s breathing. They look at each other. 

“You're not the reason why your father died. Or why Finn died. You don't make people die. This is a random accident. It's not your fault,” Lexa says slowly, deliberately, like she really needs Clarke to comprehend this. 

Clarke can't comprehend this. She shakes her head. “You know about Finn?” she questions, face falling.

Lexa nods. She's holding Clarke's face like she's afraid to let go. “Yes.”

Everything is simultaneously wrong and right, and for once, Clarke doesn't give a fuck about the right thing to say or do. She doesn't care that Lexa’s engaged or the consequences of potential actions. She needs... she just needs more. So, she lets the question she's been wanting to ask forever escape from her lips: “I know I left, but… why didn't you come after me?” 

Lexa smoothes the wet hair (from her tears) out of her face, and sighs. “I did, Clarke.”

“What?” Clarke sobs.

“I came after you. In fact, I was hellbent on bringing you home-- or moving there to be with you. It was four or five months after you left. You had dyed your hair red.” Lexa bites her lip. “But I saw you kissing him… kissing Finn. That's how I found out about him.”

Clarke closes her eyes and her voice shakes as she asks, “So, you didn't fight for me because I was with him?” 

Lexa steels her voice to say, “I had no choice but to move on, Clarke.” 

“Finn was just a boy,” Clarke corrects quietly. She's now eerily calm as Lexa hovers over her. “He’s dead, and I feel horrible about that, but if I had known the truth... I would have picked you. Without hesitation. Because he was second best, Lexa.” Clarke shakes her head slowly, sadly, and lets herself reach out and touch Lexa’s lips. They're soft, and Lexa, eyes half-lidded, leans into her touch. Clarke whispers, “Everybody always has been in comparison to you. After I left, I wasn't really living anymore. I was hiding. I was just… surviving.”

Lexa’s head drops, and their lips are almost touching. They're staring into each other's faces-- communicating with their eyes, their hearts, their truest selves and intentions-- when Lexa murmurs, “Maybe there should be more to life than just surviving.”

And then-- they're moving. 

Toward each other.

(Always toward each other.)

There’s a feather light kiss between them, and Clarke holds her breath because she doesn't want to interrupt this or stop it from happening. She wants it to last. She wants it to last forever. She wants to be Lexa Greenwood’s first kiss and last kiss and every ( _only_ ) kiss.

Because Lexa makes Clarke want to stay. She makes her want to _live_. She makes her want to _thrive_ \-- to do more than merely survive in this jagged piece of crap world.

For a second, Clarke can see a glimmer of their future again. There's a wedding-- a proposal-- and kids and messiness and imperfection and grandkids and matching rockers on their big wraparound porch. Clarke can feel Lexa on her lips, body pressing against her, and despite her rapidly swelling ankle and wet tear remnants, everything is perfect. _Because they finally got it right._

After a long moment, they pull away, and it's not enough, it never will be enough until they can do it without the shadow, but Clarke sees red and blue flashing above on the roof of the car.

The police are here.

They stare at each other as Lexa climbs out to deal with that. And for once, Lexa doesn't look guilty. Initially, she looks weary and wide-eyed, but in a way that suggests she's slowly accepting what's happening. After that, it's hard for Clarke to tell.

The pain radiating out of Clarke’s ankle comes back with a vengeance as she hears Lexa talking to the police. She gives out a low wail, and a moment later, they're shining a light directly into her eyes. A policeman tries to carry her out of the car, but he jostles her ankle and makes Clarke cry out-- at which point Lexa pushes forward to take over. 

Lexa watched her react as her worst fears came to fruition, and she still doesn't shy away. Clarke looks at her with a sad (vulnerable) expression as the other woman stares back. Lexa's not impassive, she's finally upset-- but Clarke isn't sure about which aspect of the last thirty minutes. It could mean anything.

Lexa carries her to the ambulance like it's her purpose in life, and assists the EMT in securing her to the gurney. Clarke thinks Lexa’s about to sit down when she looks at her and says, “You're right, Clarke. Everything you said was completely true.” 

Lexa looks at her hand, which is resting on Clarke’s uninjured foot, and takes it away. She adds, “But I meant it when I said I wasn't a cheater. I broke a commitment today. A personal responsibility to Costia. And…” She shakes her head, and whispers, “I have to go make what happened right. For everyone.”

She jumps off the ambulance, and with a pained look that will haunt Clarke forever-- she knows-- Lexa shuts the doors.

Clarke freezes, staring. She watches Lexa slowly walk away through the glass.

It's just too much.

Every time Lexa leaves, she wants to scream. She wants to rip her chest apart and take her heart out, because what good does it do? All she’s known since she came to this place is _pain_. Pain from all sides-- all angles.

If Lexa said everything that she said was right, why didn't she pick Clarke?

Clarke stares numbly out the door the entire way to the hospital. The EMT quickly examines her ankle and leaves her be, which she’s so grateful for. Her mother is waiting for her when the doors open again.

“Clarke, baby,” Abby says, glancing over the ankle. “Are you okay?” 

Clarke shakes her head. She's not even remotely fine, and she's tired of pretending otherwise. She's exhausted.

“I thought you were on a date?” Abby touches her shoulder, coming away with some mud that's imprinted on the expensive black material, and gives her a knowing (worried) look. “Lexa’s jacket.”

Clarke nods.

“What were you doing with her?" Abby's face darkens in a perceptible way. "Did she do this to you?”

Clarke levels her with a dry (broken) stare. “Of course not. I tripped. She was just there.”

“Did you and her…?” 

Clarke shrugs then winces. “We kissed, mom. I'm a cheating piece of shit, but it was... magical. It was unreal. It was too good to ever last... to be true... so it didn't. It wasn't.”

Abby sighs, surveying the messy hospital floor as she walks while an intern pushes Clarke along on the stretcher. Understanding the relationship, he's wisely staying quiet. 

“Sweetie. She's engaged,” Abby finally says.

“Yeah. Believe me when I say I know that,” Clarke replies.

“I always thought you’d end up together,” Abby says as she’s wheeled into a room. She glances at Clarke out of the corner of her eye. “But I don't know if this is the right way to do it. I don't know if the right thing for you anymore is her.”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that,” Clarke huffs, focusing on the first sentence. “Like you and Bellamy and Raven and Octavia and fucking Lexa.” Clarke looks at the floor. “She didn't choose me, mom. She chose her. I guess I wasn't the right thing for her. I know I deserve it. It hurts anyway.”

Abby puts a hand on her arm. “You're going to survive this, sweetheart.”

Clarke shakes her head. “You don't understand.” She looks straight ahead. “ I don't want to just survive anymore.”

 

Thankfully, her ankle isn't broken.

It's sort of just as bruised and twisted as it can be without having actually snapped. With the marvels of modern medicine, the onset swelling has been reduced slightly. Clarke can't believe how painful it is, and makes her mom give her plenty of pain medication. It relieves the pain and also helps her not think.

Her mother only waits an hour to foist the aforementioned medical intern on her. 

“Clarke, this is Niylah,” Abby says. “She’s the top of the interns, my prodigy.”

Niylah waves at her, and even though they both have blonde hair and that would be a little weird, she’s exceedingly attractive.

Clarke squints when she says, “Oh, wow. So, you two are close.”

“You could say that,” Abby says, shrugging nonchalantly. “This is Clarke, my beautiful daughter who has had a horrible night.” Abby checks her watch. “I had a surgery five minutes ago. Go over her x-rays with her. It's not surgical in nature, but it's good practice.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. She's wearing a hospital gown, and her makeup is everywhere, and it's the worst goddamn night of her life. She's considering giving up on herself, on everyone, and just fuck her mom for doing this.

Abby leaves the room, and Niylah smiles at her apologetically. She’s got an easy confidence and a single braid down her back. 

“I'm sorry,” Niylah says. “I mean you're extremely pretty-- don't get me wrong-- but you look like you've been through a lot. I mean… I usually see people on the worst nights of their life. So, if you don't want to talk to me, that's completely understandable.”

Clarke shrugs. “I'll survive.” She looks away.

Niylah goes over her x-rays, detailing how totally fucked up her ankle is currently. Afterwards, she puts a hand on Clarke's shoulder. “You'll get better quickly, Clarke, don't worry.”

Clarke nods, and Niylah smiles. She takes out a sticky note from her pocket and scribbles a number on it. “Though you totally aren't my patient, still wait until you've discharged if you would like to um… call me. If you want,” Niylah clarifies, shrugging as she smiles still, and sticks it to the bed sheets. “Even at your worst, you're super cute.”

Clarke takes the tiny yellow post it, examines a smiley face on it right above the number, and musters up a small smile. “My life is pretty complicated right now. Actually, it's a goddamn mess. A nightmare,” she replies.

Niylah nods. “Been there.” 

“Touché,” Clarke murmurs, already woozy from the pain medication.

“See you later, Clarke,” Niylah counters before she slips out the door.

“Bye,” she whispers.

It's not perfect.

It's not the ideal.

But it does make Clarke feel _something_.

 

They send Clarke home in a walking boot she’s to wear for two weeks-- the damn thing is enormous, blocky, and itches relentlessly. Her mother tries to take her home, and she almost does, but Clarke waves Abby off at the last possible moment and hobbles into a taxi that's just dropped someone off. Her phone lights up, and through the haze of medication and general melancholy, it dawns on her that Raven is calling her. Phone calls in cars are becoming their new (twisted) tradition. Clarke brings the phone to her ear to answer.

“Clarke?” Raven says in alarm.

“Yeah, Rae?” 

“Ontari called me. Where are you?” 

“I'm going home,” Clarke replies after a beat.

“What happened? She said you went somewhere… with Lexa.”

Clarke sighs.

“I'm hoping this is the part where you tell me you didn't do what I think you did while you were on a date with Ontari, Clarke.”

Clarke doesn't say anything. Instead, she hangs up-- and turns her phone off. She stares off into the distance, watching everything outside the car window that's passing her by, but it all blurs eventually and she can't focus.

Because she's a cheater.

And she won't lie about it.

But it's something she can't be.

It's something she isn't willing to be.

Yes, they kissed. They had kissed for a brief glorious moment-- and morally, it had been reprehensible. But fire had churned in her gut, and the world had been reverted to its natural _right_ order again. Even if it wasn’t _enough _, couldn't be, it had to be.__

Because now… Clarke needs to let Lexa go.

She needs to let Lexa be _happy_ in a life that has nothing to with her.

To her utter relief, there's no one in her apartment when she arrives. Clarke spends the entire night watching muted (shitty, old) television whilest actually listening to melancholic classical music. When dawn rises, she finally falls asleep with red-rimmed eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's got to get worse before it gets better.


	6. Act VI

Clarke jerks awake midmorning to a persistent thumping. She blinks, wetting her lips, which are unnaturally dry, and adjusts her foot, pausing to wait for more sounds. There’s more knocking immediately, and then she hears someone bellow, “I know you're in there, Clarke Griffin! I'm wearing a post-birth diaper and I won't be ignored!”

Raven. In a diaper.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Clarke sighs, discarding the telltale jacket around her and throwing it, wrinkled and filthy, into the corner behind her couch. She replaces the article by wrapping a crocheted blanket around herself. Blearily, she stands and limps the few steps to the door, grimacing before unlocking it.

Raven _and_ Anya are outside the door. 

Clarke raises an eyebrow.

“We brought breakfast--” Anya starts.

“We’re here to find out the goddamn truth,” Raven interrupts. Anya rolls her eyes.

Clarke just sighs. This isn't like the Pancake House incident-- she's actually gone and completely fucked up this time. Shes guilty. Raven pushes past her, and she realizes yes, this _is_ happening, and nods in defeat, holding the door wide for Anya to follow. At least she's carrying a sack of bagels-- and three coffees. 

Still, Clarke isn't exactly thrilled.

“Where's Sébastien?” she asks.

“The nanny is watching him,” Raven replies sharply. “What happened last night?”

Clarke sighs again, and her eyes harden. “This,” she said, pulling the blanket away from her foot cast. “Then a car accident. Also, Lexa kissed me. Or I kissed her. We kissed each other,” Clarke confesses.

(Clarke regrets hurting Costia, but she could never really regret what happened-- the kiss.)

Raven opens her mouth and closes it. “Are you alright? Is it broken?” she asks, finally.

“Yeah. I think. It's only sprained, not broken.”

Raven sighs, and sits at Clarke’s chipped kitchen table like it's her own. Anya sets the breakfast down, rubbing her face-- they both look exhausted-- and Raven unpacks it. Clarke cautiously sits down besides them. There's silence for awhile, all of them claiming a coffee and a bagel. Raven picks hers apart and devours it, but after popping the second piece in her mouth, says, “Well, we all knew this would eventually happen.”

“I didn't want for it to happen.”

Raven levels Clarke with a look.

“Okay, fine, I did, and I’m a horrible selfish asshole. But I didn't want anyone to get hurt.” Clarke takes a sip of coffee, which is strong and far too hot. “Which I know is naive and impossible. I didn't want to get hurt.”

“Someone was always going to get hurt, Clarke,” Raven replies.

“I know that,” Clarke says darkly. “I messed up, okay? I probably destroyed them. I should go back to California. I haven't done good things here.”

Raven pulls back, throwing her bagel on the table with a plop. “So? You can't just leave, Clarke. Everyone has difficult problems and part of growing up is learning how to deal with them.” Raven shakes her head. “You said you were done running.”

“I'm not running. I'm… talking.”

“You better fucking not,” Raven mutters, picking up her bagel again. “Leaving is what got you into this mess with Lexa in the first place.”

“Lexa knew about Finn’s… that he died.”

Raven nods. “She overheard us talking. She develops supersonic hearing whenever you’re mentioned.”

“I don't know why she cares,” Clarke mutters.

“Of course you do. You're not stupid, Clarke.”

Clarke takes a bite of bagel to hide the sadness resonating through her. When she's done, she asks, “What about… Costia?”

“Were you concerned about her when you two were making out?” Raven snaps.

_I broke a commitment today._

_A personal responsibility to Costia._

_And I have to go make what happened right._

_For everyone._

Clarke closes her eyes, and when she opens them, her voice breaks as she says, “I'm sorry, Rae. I'm not perfect, and I made a mistake. I know that, but I need you to be with me on this. I need you to just… just cut me a fucking break for once. _Please_.”

“She's right,” Anya says.

Their heads both swivel to her in shock.

“She's right?” Raven repeats.

Anya nods. “You shouldn't be so hard on her, babe. Lexa’s the one in the relationship. Clarke is… unattached, single. She's free to do what she wants. She's not the one at fault.”

Clarke hesitates before saying, “I mean I almost broke my ankle and got in a car accident. I've been punished.” She puts her lips on the cup, and adds under her coffee breath, “Plus I think you're projecting.”

Raven, rosy and round, huffs in indignation. 

Clarke is startled to hear Anya pointedly throw in, “You're definitely projecting.”

Raven looks away guiltily. “Okay, fine. _Maybe_ I am, but that was also… different. Way, way different.”

“I don't know what happened… but I mean this is different,” Clarke shrugs. “It's complicated. And I'm not saying it was right, but it was… there's a lot of history there. And she basically kissed me, so.” 

Raven nods, and looks past Clarke's shoulder as if she's remembering. “I didn't know him. He was...”

Anya looks down, and though her face doesn't change a centimeter, Clarke can see the stiffening of her shoulders. The Greenwood sisters share a mother-- and similar defense tactics and coping strategies.

“A mistake,” Clarke finishes.

“It was the worst mistake of my life,” Raven replies, hand creeping over Anya’s. “It hurt us both. I don't want you to feel like that, Clarke. I don't want you to feel like… me. I don't want Costia to feel like Anya felt. I don't want you and Lexa to feel like me. I'm trying to save you.”

“I know. I know,” Clarke says. “But it's too late to save me. And it's selfish, but I'm not even that worried about how Costia feels right now. Lexa isn't here. She’s there. She made her choice, and I wasn't it. Look, _I_ need you, Rae. I need my best friend to be on my side even if I'm a stupid fucking idiot and make a goddamn mess of absolutely everything. I need you.” 

“I know, Clarke,” Raven admits. Her other hand reaches out to rest on Clarke's arm. “That's why I dragged my ass over here in a diaper. People aren't perfect, and life is messy, and people get hurt because of it. But I don't even think you're an idiot. You were a champ through the birth, and I love you, and I'm … sorry for being a stubborn hardass. This situation has been a long time coming, and it isn't your fault. I didn't mean to blame you. If we’re assigning blame for this incident--” 

“Let's not. Let's just… let everyone move on from what happened last night,” Clarke interrupts, a ghost of a frown on her lips.

Raven nods. “Did you like Ontari?” 

“Did you not realize she was insane?” Clarke counters as lightly as she can manage. 

“Um… no? How so?” 

“Pretty much as soon as she walked through the door, she was like trying to cop a feel.”

Raven cringes. “Jesus. I'm sorry, Clarke. I thought she was… eccentric. Not lIke that. God, I'm an asshole. You didn't need that right now.”

“I should have checked into her more before condoning this. She's a recent hire,” Anya murmurs. “Do you want me to have a word with her?”

“Don't bother. I can take care of myself.” Clarke gives a short dry laugh. “It's funny... Lexa basically asked the same thing.” 

“Doesn't surprise me,” Anya replies.

They're sisters. The Greenwood sisters.

Clarke doesn't want to remember that. She tries not to remember at all. Because if she remembers, she will remember the faint peppermint scent of Lexa’s mouth. She will remember how their lips felt sliding together so desperately. She will remember how tightly Lexa’s hands held her face. She will remember how Lexa stared at her-- how her eyes burned a mark into her.

Clarke tries to smile, but instead says, “Thanks for caring. I'm kind of surprised after… what happened.”

Anya winces, and Raven sniffs it out like a bloodhound. “What happened?” she asks.

“It was nothing,” Clarke replies, staring into her coffee. It was sort of something, but it was in the past now. Sébastien’s birth had unofficially mended their feud, and she shouldn't have slipped up and mentioned it.

Anya sighs. “I was an asshole. I may have… gave her a visit.”

“Why are you saying it like that? You're not in the fucking mafia. Did you harass my best friend?” Raven says, voice amplifying in the small apartment (it's the vaulted ceilings).

“She was worried for her sister, okay?” Clarke interrupts. “She visited me the night before Sébastien was born. She was stressed. It wasn't like super rude or anything,” Clarke adds, lying astutely as she takes in the scalding look Raven gives Anya.

“Should you have gotten involved though?” Raven, glaring, asks Anya.

“Probably not. Should you?” Anya counters calmly, taking a sip of coffee.

“Clarke is my best friend,” Raven gasps, and it's probably just the hormones, but she's furious. She starts talking fast-- and really loudly-- which eventually lapses into Raven yelling at her in Spanish. Anya barks little tense phrases back in Nepali as she rolls her eyes.

Clarke drinks her coffee, looking anywhere but the feuding couple, and when a knock comes, she bounces up like her foot isn't killing her (when it totally is), because she's saved. Except it's her mom, so she's not really…

“Clarke, baby, I came to check on you since you disappeared into a taxi last night,” Abby says, giving her a look full of disappointment before a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, you have company. It's the mamas! How are you two doing? Where's the little one?"

In the fifteen seconds it took Clarke to reach the door, harmony has apparently been reached. Raven is suddenly sitting on Anya’s lap, and they're the very picture of happiness as Raven replies, “Hey, Mama A! We’re tired, but good.”

“You're feeling well?” Abby probes.

Raven nods, and kisses the side of Anya’s head.

“How's my little Sébastien?” Abby asks, smiling. “I bought him the cutest outfit the other day… well, outfits...”

Clare wonders how she ever thought her mother was homophobic. She was protective. She was broken at the end, but she still cared. She had always cared.

They lapse into a godawful amount of baby talk-- at which point Anya excuses herself to the bathroom. When Clarke’s head has become chock full of all things baby, Anya comes back. Her face is grim.

“Clarke… I tried to wipe it off, but uh… your bathroom mirror,” is all Anya says. 

They end up all getting up to follow Anya back to the bathroom. It's lipstick, Clarke thinks. There's lipstick on the mirror. It's not a cute little note either. It's angry red scribbles on every inch on the entire half-wall mirror and a fair amount of the sink underneath. It's all smeared now, but when Clarke squints, she can still see the message-- and a phone number.

“Clarke,” Raven reads out loud, “You ditched our date, but I dim… oh, dig,” she corrects, huffing before she continues, “but I dig the chase. You better watch out or I might… catch you,” Raven finishes, pulling back in disturbance. A second later, she shoots a concerned look at Anya. Ontari, Clarke thinks.

Just how long had she been in her home?

“That's creepy,” Clarke eventually deadpans. 

They've all kind of been staring at it in shock because it's so messy and sort of… stalkery... or maybe even serial killery. Either way, this doesn't forebode good things about Ontari’s mental state. Clarke didn't need the scene before her to predict that, however.

“I'm talking to her when I get to work. She won't bother you from now on,” Anya says.

Clarke just nods.

“This is from the girl you were on a date with?” Abby questions. “She made a mess.”

“It's fine,” Clarke replies. “I mean it's completely not, but… I can clean it up. And I never have to see her again. Since she's obviously insane.”

“That seems for the best,” Abby murmurs, taking in the scene once more before shaking her head. “Besides, you have Niylah now.”

Clarke groans. “I'm staying single for awhile.”

“What? You didn't like her?” Abby asks in surprise. “But she's brilliant, Clarke.”

Clarke holds her head. “I had just got in a car accident and almost broke my ankle, mom. I wasn't on the prowl for another shitty date.”

There's more-- someone more-- to it than that, of course, but it would hurt too much to admit. So, Clarke doesn't. Not even to herself.

Abby shrugs, but has the grace to look chastened. “Sometimes we meet people when we’re least expecting them.”

“Nope. Single. I am single,” Clarke emphasizes, pointing at herself.

“What about grandchildren?” Abby counters.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I believe your other daughter has fulfilled that requirement for you,” she replies, patting Raven's shoulder.

She wanted kids once. Frankly, she can't imagine having them anymore.

“For real,” Raven echoes. “You need grandbaby time? You come to our house and take him. No questions asked.”

“Don't you all have somewhere to be?” Clarke prompts. She's getting a headache.

“I just gave birth. I'm allowed to be wherever the hell I want,” Raven replies.

Anya looks at her watch. “I should sneak into work to go over a few things real quick.”

“I do have to go,” Abby sighs. “I have a surgery. But I was worried about you, Clarke. I want you to be healthy… and happy.”

“I am, mom,” Clarke says to pacify her. They all know it's a lie, but they don't call her on it out loud.

Abby stares at her for a beat longer, and murmurs, “I love you. All of you,” she adds, glancing at Raven and Anya. “You'll be okay. Give it time. I know you’ll be okay.”

Was Abby okay? Was Abby okay after--

Clarke swallows, and nods.

Abby trickles out of her apartment slowly, hugging them all against their wills several times, but Raven and Anya hang back.

“Do you want to hang out today? We could drink more coffee or alcohol-- or damn, whatever you want.” Anya shoots her a look, and Raven adds, “I pumped enough out this morning for like three days, alright.” 

Clarke smiles softly. “I love you, Rae, but I need to just… be. I need to be alone.” 

“Understandable, but you better not forget our standing coffee appointments next week. I know we skipped a week on account of the crotch spawn and all, but it's still on.” 

“I wouldn't dream of missing it,” Clarke replies smoothly. They kiss each other on the cheek, and Clarke smiles at Anya (who manages to do the same in return) as they leave. 

And then she's alone with the lipstick fiasco and a mess of a life.

Ignoring the mirror, the first thing she does is flush her pain pills down the swirling toilet. She doesn't want to turn into a zombie-- even if it's all too tempting, it's better to feel.

Even when it hurts.

Even when the pain doesn't seem to ever stop.

Clarke takes a shower-- or well, bath, technically-- with her boot hanging out the tub because she can't be bothered to take it off. Under warm, soothing water, the past twenty four hours hit her like a grenade.

She's soaping up her collarbone with strawberry soap, and then she can't stop crying. She lets the soap fall to the shower floor as she lets all of the emotions pour out-- the grief, the loss, the fucking _regret_. Clarle doesn't try to control it; her therapist had always said to let herself feel. It's probably the best advice she's ever been given: taking space for yourself to heal.

Because she desperately needs to heal.

Except she keeps getting stuck on the part where she was healed. She was happy. She was doing okay before she came here. But Lexa fucking Greenwood had ripped the bandaid off her heart and then everything had seeped back in as it had been _five years ago_.

Clarke can't help but think about how Lexa _agrees_ with what she told her. They had been so close to something. She felt it with every fiber of her body. It had been right there-- dangling just out of reach in front of her. But then she thinks about how it's not enough. She thinks about how Lexa walked away, leaving her for the third time-- how she chose Costia.

Clarke thinks about how all she has to show for the most shattering kiss of her life is an extremely sprained ankle (heart).

_Maybe there should be more to life than just surviving._

It doesn't even feel like she's surviving right now. The pain feels untreatable.

The shower pelts her swollen face when, a moment later, she reaches for her phone to call Wells. She can only be so, so thankful that she's falling apart on a day off-- when she has the time and space to do so. She may be unlucky, but she's privileged in a lot of ways. She has a parent, and great friends.

She has a life here already (again).

“I got in a car accident,” is the first thing Clarke sobs after Wells picks up.

“Oh my god, Clarke,” he replies, dropping something. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Not that she needs one, but he's been her unofficial protector for the past few years. He's the one she calls when she can't call anyone else, when things aren't working out, when she fought with Finn, when she needs to describe a particularly disturbing dream.

He’s the one she calls for _everything_.

“I'm fine,” Clarke says, feeling guilty for leading with the inconsequential accident. “We were going fast, but we only crashed into a fire hydrant.”

Wells makes a sound of confusion, and probes, “Why are you crying then?” 

“My ankle hurts,” she says. It's not the entire truth, but it is _a_ truth.

“Did you hurt it in the crash?”

“No. I tripped in a pothole, sprained my ankle, and _then_ we got in a crash.”

“Jeez, Griffin. Only with you. Who's we?”

“Me and… Lexa.”

“You were with her?”

“I was trying to give her the fucking jacket. I mean I was on a date, but I tripped like a jackass. Lexa saw and she was taking me to the hospital, and I screamed, and she got distracted… jerked the wheel.”

“Clarke,” Wells says. “It's not your fault.”

_You're not the reason why your father died._

_Or why Finn died._

_You don't make people die._

_This is a random accident._

**It's not your fault.**

“I know,” Clarke mumbles, closing her eyes. “I know that. But why, Wells? Why does it keep happening to me? What have I done?”

She knows what she's done.

She's _runaway_.

She's _left_.

And now, she's done the real unforgivable. She’s _kissed_.

“You haven't done anything,” Wells says gently. It reminds Clarke of her father-- of the person he was before the crash. Wells doesn't know about the finer details of last night and she can't bring herself to mention it. He always thinks the best of her. “I don't know why it keeps happening, Clarke, but I do know that happier days will come. And when they do, you’ll appreciate them all the more because of these hard times. You will have wholeheartedly earned the good.”

“I do deserve something good,” Clarke admits, and realizes she has finally stopped crying. “I'm furious with the universe.”

“I understand why. I would be too. You're definitely due better things.” There's a pause before he adds, “How was seeing Lexa?” 

Clarke takes a deep breath. “It was… it was… it was a car crash.” She laughs weakly.

It's always a car crash. But the truth is this one hadn't hurt so much as healed. The truth is that it had allowed her to say everything she needed to. The truth is… it was everything. Before everything turned around and walked away for the third time.

Wells makes a sound of assent, and questions, “How was your date by the way?” 

“She was fucking insane,” Clarke sighs.

“Well… shit, Clarke,” Wells finally replies, sighing as well. He rarely curses, but whenever he does, it amuses Clarke-- it sounds so wrong coming out of his mouth. “Hell of a day. Wish I could buy you a beer for your troubles.”

“I wish that too, Wellsy,” Clarke says.

“Count on it-- oh my gosh, someone just came in with a gunshot wound...”

“Go, go,” Clarke replies, turning the water off.

“We’ll talk soon, Clarke,” Wells promises.

“I'll be here.”

He disconnects.

 

Clarke's tired, exhausted in a whole new way, but instead of laying around, she tries to be productive by painting the day away. The first canvas, she has to paint over. It's all angry colors and too solid marks, and it just won't do. Slowly, she begins painting the second time around, and when she's done, she reaches for more canvas. Sometime in the mid afternoon, she’s managed to complete four separate paintings-- a set.

Octavia calls her after she's been done for awhile, feeling blank and _better_.

“Can I come over?” Octavia asks.

“Can we go grocery shopping?” Clarke counters, sighing. “I'm sure you've heard about last night. I don't want to drive myself after the wreck.”

“Yeah,” Octavia replies. “I could stand to pick up a few things. Be there in fifteen.”

Clarke thanks her, and they hang up. She slaps on some concealer, focusing on the area under her eyes, which is bloated and red in the small section of mirror she's cleaned off to see. (She’ll need some more glass cleaner at the store.)

Octavia texts her to let her know she's arrived, and she chooses the elevator to go down. 

Octavia’s messing with her phone and Darwin’s kicking his legs in the backseat when she opens the passenger door. Clarke flashes him a grin and waves, and then her eyes settle on Octavia, who puts her phone down and smiles.

“Hey,” Clarke says softly.

Octavia nods her head in return, and they don't say anything as she puts the car into drive-- as they glide through the sun-filled parking lot and onto city streets. They're halfway to the grocery when Clarke blurts out, “You know, your brother kind of tried to ask me out.”

Octavia snorts. “I know. He told me.” She side-eyes Clarke, who is staring at the radio. “He's had a thing for you for forever.”

“I guess I didn't really notice until he said something.”

“I know,” Octavia repeats. “Anyway, he's an idiot.”

“I’d say I'm the idiot. He's just Bell.”

“It’s true then?” Octavia questions, taking the opening.

Clarke sighs. “Yes.”

Octavia whistles. “A fine mess, Griffin.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees.

“I wondered why they didn't show up to their trainer appointment this morning.”

Clarke closes her eyes, and tries to imagine why they didn't: they've been arguing all night or maybe they're having too much makeup sex to be bothered with working out. “Fuck.”

Octavia shrugs. “Shit happens.”

“I feel horrible about what happened,” Clarke admits, grimacing. "I feel horrible... about not feeling as horrible as I should."

Octavia shrugs again. “It was coming. It was always coming.”

“Yeah, maybe. You know, we kissed, but… Lexa picked her.”

Octavia glances at Clarke. “What did she say?” 

“A lot of things. She said she had to go make things right-- for everyone.”

“For everyone,” Octavia repeats. “For _you_?”

“No,” Clarke counters. “I think she meant everyone as in... her and Costia.”

Octavia gives her a long look.

Clarke doesn't notice.

They get to the grocery store, and god, is her ankle aching-- Clarke should probably ice and elevate, but there's shit to do-- and they both get carts. Darwin wants to sit in Clarke’s, so she hoists his little body up into the seat.

“You're a sweetie,” she says, bopping his nose lightly, and he giggles in a manner so precious that both adults grin.

“Wait until you see a tantrum,” Octavia adds.

They glide through the store, and Clarke hasn't really gotten that much food for her apartment, so she ends grabbing all the spices and condiments and enough food to last a family of seven in a nuclear war.

She's making a home.

Or at least thoroughly stocking the fridge.

By the time they're done, Octavia has some milk and eggs in her cart while Clarke’s cart is threatening to overflow. The lines are long, and Clarke spots a dinosaur figurine on the end display and picks it up to show Darwin.

His eyes turn large as he whispers, “Dino…”

It's the second word Clarke's heard from him, and she lifts an eyebrow. “That's right, little buddy. Do you like dinosaurs?”

He shakes his head up and down aggressively, and Clarke glances at (a smiling) Octavia for approval. She nods, but then rolls her eyes like Clarke's spoiling her kid rotten. This is a start to that at least.

“Take care of your little dino, okay?” Clarke says, handing him the dinosaur. His legs kick in excitement as he squeals, and then he leans forward and makes a roaring sound so ferocious that it startles the crap out of the old lady in front of them. 

“He watches Dinosaur Train obsessively,” Octavia says, smiling as she reminds him, “Indoor voice, okay?” He smiles, making the dinosaur dance along the edge of the cart.

As Clarke loads groceries onto the belt, she can't stop laughing from the image of Darwin roaring like a little beast. The cashier is a small pimply teenage girl, and she stares at Clarke like she's crazy. When the groceries are all rang up and bagged, Darwin drops his toy and lets out a wail. Clarke bends to get it for him, and feels Octavia brush past her. She stands up, handing him the toy, and sees Octavia fiddling with the payment screen.

“What are you doing?” 

Octavia glances at her a little guiltily before she slides her card lightening fast. “I'm paying.”

“Um… you're not paying for my groceries. I bought an insane amount,” Clarke says, looking at the total. It's several hundred dollars. “Oh my god, no!” She glances at the cashier. “I'm sorry to be a nuisance, but can you please void that payment?”

“It already went through. Don't void it,” Octavia counters.

Clarke sighs. There are people in line (and Darwin) watching them. “Why?” 

“I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm sort of rich now,” Octavia shrugs, not in the least bit smug about it. “Call it your apartment warming present.”

“So… which will it be?” the cashier sighs.

“Leave it as is,” Octavia replies.

Clarke shakes her head, and pushes the cart past her to start loading groceries. “Fine. But I'm babysitting for free for the foreseeable future.”

“My plan all along,” Octavia agrees.

They’re walking to car when Octavia mentions, “Oh, I forgot! It's his third birthday on Wednesday. We’re having a party. There'll be some kids but it's mostly an excuse for adult time. You think you'd be up for it?”

“Of course,” Clarke says, smiling at Darwin, who grins back, raising his toy in the air. “But… ”

“Lincoln invited them already, but… you two are going to run into each other, you know?” Octavia says. “It might be good to get used to seeing each other.”

“Yeah. That's true. Yes.” Clarke glances at Darwin as Octavia opens the trunk of the Jacquar. “We can be… civil. I mean of course I'll be there-- and with more presents than I can carry.” She punctuates the statement by tickling Darwin under the chin. He roars at her again, and she smiles, but it's quick lived.

Octavia gives an amused chuckle that falters into a concerned look a second later. Clarke tries her best to ignore it by transporting Darwin out of the cart and into the car seat.

 

It's Sunday night, and the weekend has slipped through her fingertips. 

Clarke has swore a thousand times she’ll never think of Lexa Greenwood again, but she keeps breaking all her promises. She hasn't heard anything about Lexa other than Octavia mentioning she (they) missed a gym appointment, which could mean anything. She’s waiting for her nails to dry on her balcony when she has an abrupt realization:

Lexa Greenwood is a good person. 

Clarke can only imagine how torn up she must be over what they did. She's probably swearing fealty to Costia. She's probably crying and telling Costia she means everything. She's probably promising never to so much as look in Clarke’s direction ever again.

Lexa Greenwood is a good person.

And Clarke is too.

So, it's time to stop holding onto hope (however secret, however taboo). Clarke has already done it once, so she knows it can be done-- but for some reason it's so much harder letting go of Lexa Greenwood the second time around.

_You're right, Clarke._

_Everything you said was completely true._

She's not afraid of being alone.

She's not afraid of living life by herself.

But maybe she deserves more than that, too.

Looking into the bright summer light, Clarke breathes in deep. “I never stopped loving you,” she murmurs, finally admitting it. “I buried it every night, even though it was always uncovered by the time morning came." Her quiet voice gets lost in the bustle of the city, and even though no one can hear her, it helps.

"Goodbye, Lexa."

She's saying it for the last time.

Clarke goes inside and picks a scrunched up post-it off the counter. She carefully avoids smearing wet nail polish all over the tiny paper and dials the number on it before she can convince herself not to.

“Hello?” Niylah answers on the third ring-- her voice is thicker than Clarke remembers. Maybe it's the effect of talking over the phone or maybe, she suspects, it's grogginess. 

“Hi,” Clarke whispers. She feels horrible for interrupting what she assumes is naptime. She knows how much shit surgical interns deal with. They need every bit of sleep they can grab. “Um… it's Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

“Clarke Griffin,” Niylah repeats. Something makes a crunching noise in the background. "Did things uncomplicate themselves, Clarke Griffin?” 

Clarke takes a deep breath. “I'm making things simple. Did I… were you sleeping?”

“No,” Niylah replies way too defensively, and they both burst into laughter. “Okay, yeah. Don't tell anyone, especially your mom, but I fell asleep in a supply closet... in the basement. In the morgue, actually. It's quiet.”

Clarke lets out a small laugh. “I totally understand. I was at the hospital all the time when I was younger, and I saw what interns went through. I think that's why I stuck with art. Do you want me to call you back later? Sleep is more important.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Niylah says, managing to grin through a yawn. “No, it's fine, I needed to wake up anyway.”

“Okay. Well. I was wondering if you would want to grab a coffee with me sometime?” 

“You know... when Dr. Griffin told me about you, I thought mixing work and my personal life sounded like a horrible idea,” Niylah replies matter of factly. Clarke stares at the floor, heart beating fast as Niylah adds, “But then I saw you… shoeless, eyeliner running, so sad and yet so... well anyway, I thought, ‘Fuck it.’ I would love to get a coffee together, Clarke, even though your mother runs my life and could ruin my career.”

"I won't let her do that," Clarke says, smiling.

They're still talking, ironing out the place and date amidst their schedules, when there's a knock on the door. Every fiber of Clarke’s body seems to tense as she stares at the door. But there's another knock and she starts to creep toward it, laughing robotically from a joke Niylah’s made about her mom.

Clarke wonders why there isn't peephole in the door. Is that illegal? Even if it isn't, she’s thinking about taking a drill to it-- she needs to be able to screen her visitors these days. There's too many angry people always knocking her door down. Niylah is still talking and she's only half-listening when she rips the door from the handle like a bandaid.

And all the air leaves her lungs.

Clarke freezes. 

Then unfreezes.

“Niylah, something came up and I have to go now. 9am at Starbucks on Friday?” Clarke whispers.

Niylah confirms, and from the way she pauses, it's clear she detects the change in Clarke's mood. She says goodbye, and when Clarke is too distracted to even return the parting, hangs up. 

Costia stands in front of her, and says, “Hi, Clarke.”


	7. Act VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: sex ahead

“Planning a date?” is the second thing Costia says, pink lips drawn into a menacing line. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head and she's holding a canvas bag on the crook of her elbow, but she doesn't look ready to go to yoga. She looks like she's leaving.

“Um…” Fuck fuck _SHIT_ fuck fuck _fuck_ is all Clarke’s brain is producing.

“You're a busy girl,” Costia replies grimly.

“Look... I'm sorry--” 

Costia stops her with a look. “May I?” she gestures into the apartment.

Clarke’s whole body is refusing that idea, but she owes it to her so she says, “Yeah.”

Costia-- motherfucking _Costia_ \-- steps into her apartment, not going too far before she spins around to face Clarke. Clarke braces herself, and thinks one final FUCK before trying to smile, which comes out as a pure grimace.

“So, it is true,” Costia says, looking at her leg. “I almost didn't believe it, but Lexa never has lied to me.”

“Um... yeah. I have shit luck.”

Costia’s eyes latch onto her face and they're burning with intensity. “I wouldn't say that.”

(Costia doesn't know her that well, obviously.)

“So, you really broke your ankle and got in a car crash,” Costia surmises after a beat.

“It's sprained, actually,” Clarke replies. “And it was only a fire hydrant...”

Costia nods like that matters.

Clarke swallows. “So…?”

“You want to know why I'm here?” Costia questions, raising an eyebrow. “I thought it would be obvious.”

“It was a mistake,” Clarke blurts out. “It was such a mistake... and Lexa left right after. She picked you, Costia. I won't even speak to her anymore if makes you uncomfortable.”

“It does,” Costia counters. “But it doesn't seem like Lexa can help it. Tell me, Clarke, can you? Are you purposely _trying_ to steal her away from me?” 

“No,” Clarke replies gently. “She deserves to be happy. So do you. I was just... caught up…”

“In the past? You two have quite a history.”

Clarke nods hesitantly.

“And yet, you abandoned her without explanation.” Costia tutts. "That wasn't very nice of you."

Clarke’s gaze drops to the floor. Costia says it casually, condescendingly, and though those are facts, it's meant to sting. And it does.

“I think she deserves better, too,” Costia finishes, eyes sweeping over Clarke like she's trying to figure out what's so special about her. “At the very least, she deserves better than someone who ran away." 

“I agree,” Clarke replies weakly.

Costia nods, and looks around Clarke’s messy apartment, which is when she spots the crumpled jacket in the corner behind the couch. “Is that her jacket?” 

Clarke winces. “Yes.”

“I'll take it to her,” Costia says, starting towards it.

“I'm getting it dry cleaned first,” Clarke replies a little too sharply. “It's my fault it's a mess," she adds, lightening her tone. "I'll give it to Anya when it's ready.”

Costia halts and gives her a long look. To Clarke’s surprise, she does nothing but nod and retreat.

There's a long moment of silence until Clarke takes a deep breath and asks, “What is it that you need me to say, Costia? I'll say whatever that is.”

Costia’s face crumples, but then she regroups-- and just smiles sort of scarily. “I need you to say that you're not in love with my fiancée.”

“I'm not in love with Lexa,” Clarke repeats, but the words are too thick in her mouth and her nails fold into her palms so tightly that they pierce skin.

Costia stares at her-- spine straight, mouth firm. She's staring, and it's uncomfortable, because she knows. She knows what Clarke can't even bring herself to admit most days. “I needed you to mean what you were saying, Clarke,” Costia says finally.

“I do mean it. It's ancient history.”

“History repeats itself,” Costia replies.

Clarke shakes her head-- she's so close to crying. This is too much. “I won't let it anymore.”

“I don't think you can stop it. I came here to see if it was the same for you as it is for Lexa.” Costia looks away. “Can't you see that's the problem? Supposedly, neither of you are trying to make it happen, but it just... keeps... happening. Neither of you can... stop, which means…” 

“What?” Clarke prompts-- eyes filling.

Costia shakes her head in defeat. “It means I’m the one that has to get out of the way.”

“No, Costia. Look, I made a horrible mistake, but I've moved on. Lexa’s… yours.”

“Lexa is Lexa’s,” Costia says evenly. “She's never been mine.”

And it's true enough-- even if it's not really what Clarke meant. She had meant:

She was relinquishing hope.

She was relinquishing Lexa.

She was relinquishing the idea of _them_.

But Costia doesn't get that. 

“I should have known better, but I didn't want to believe it," Costia adds. "I thought maybe if I ignored it... whatever was between you two would go away. But that was foolish. It's not going to go away, is it?”

“It's going away. I'm making it go away.”

Costia shakes her head. “It doesn't really work that way, Clarke, and I find I can't be with Lexa and know. I can't wait at home while she's out eating breakfast with you. I can't be at work while she's driving you around and kissing you. I don't want to be with her if all she can think about is you. I can't be the girl that waits around for her fiancée to get her head out of her ass and notice what she has right in front of her. I refuse.”

“Lexa loves you and--” 

“That’s a little ironic, don't you think? Maybe just sad. Deep down, we both know it's not true. Or she wouldn't have done which she did,” Costia sighs, and looks sick-- pained-- for a long second before she adds, “Tell me one more thing, Clarke.”

Clarke nods. She doesn't know how much longer she can last without bawling in shame, but honestly, she owes it to the black-haired girl in front of her. And she can't help but think she deserves to feel like this.

“Did the world end when you kissed her?”

“No,” Clarke replies shakily.

That was true.

Because it was actually more like everything had started again.

Costia smiles, and it's sadder than the whimpers that want to pour out of Clarke's throat. “That's what I needed to know.” She takes a few steps toward the hallway, swaying, and stops in the frame of the door. “Do you know what happened after she left? The first thing Lexa did after she left you in an ambulance?” 

Clarke closes her eyes. “No.”

“It wasn't calling me and apologizing or running home as quickly as she could. It wasn't even… god, I don't know… getting drunk at that shitty bar she likes. That would be a logical reaction for cheater’s remorse, right?” Costia laughs, and Clarke winces at the sound. “But no. The first thing Lexa did was call Ontari, her best agent, and fire her.” Costia pauses as that sinks in. “Do you know why she did that, Clarke?”

Clarke offers nothing.

“Because of you. Everything that she does… seems to elevate _you_ for some reason.”

“She picked _you_ ,” Clarke counters. “She shouldn't have done those things, but... but let's just say that Ontari isn't the greatest person. You’re a decent person, and I know you're angry, but I never meant… I never... I know it probably doesn't matter, but I'm so, so sorry. I never meant to be this person. I never wanted to do what we did. I … if nothing else, I hope you know...” 

“I do know that, Clarke, but it's a shame it doesn't matter the least bit coming from you,” Costia says, pulling out a pair of shades and setting them against the bridge of her nose. “If you're a good person, you'll leave her alone. She's been through enough-- and you might not mean to do it, but you’re going to end up destroying her. I think that's just who you are.”

And then she's gone.

It's not true, it's not true, it's not true--

Clarke’s not a destroyer. It's life… it’s… it's...

It can't be her again.

Clarke sinks to the ground and is letting out little choked sobs when a shadow falls over her because the door is still thrown open. She looks up expecting to see Costia, probably back for another round of reminding her how horrible she is, or a neighbor who is wondering why she's such a mess, but instead finds a familiar face that's confused but thankfully devoid of judgement-- Wells.

“Wellsy?” she croaks, struggling to breathe.

“Clarke? What's going on? Why are you crying? Who was that?” 

“What are you doing here?” Clarke cries.

“I told you that we would talk soon,” Wells says, breaking out into a grin that's entirely too short lived. “I meant face to face. Now back to my questions.”

Clarke shakes her head, burying her head in her hands. “I didn't tell you,” she chokes out through her palms. “Sometimes, it feels like you’re the only neutral friend I have and I... I didn't want you to think less of me. I didn't want you to see me like everyone else sees me.” Wells drops down beside her. He slides the duffel bag off and throws a loose arm around her shoulder.

“Clarke… you know I'll still love you no matter what you did, right? We can fix it.”

Clarke emerges and swallows awkwardly before swiping her face off and saying, “We can't fix it. There's no fixing this. The night of the car wreck… I kissed Lexa. She's engaged to the girl that left.”

Wells sighs. “Did it help?”

“No,” Clarke replies darkly. “I mean… sort of,” she relents, “but it also made everything worse. A lot worse.”

“It sounds like it needed to happen, though.”

“Or maybe I was just… a fool. Maybe I destroyed again.”

“What did that girl say to you?” Wells asks gently.

“Her name is Costia. She was... way nicer than I thought she’d be… than I deserved.” Clarke sighs. “She said I was going to destroy Lexa,” Clarke echoes, and she tries and fails to contain sobbing out, “Again. She's probably right.”

“Oh, Clarke. She was angry.”

“She didn't even cuss me out, and she still made me cry… goddamn it.”

“And you probably sat there and took it like you always do, didn't you?” 

“What else was I supposed to do?” 

“Close the door in her face? Look, Clarke, you haven't destroyed anything. That's a bunch of bullshit. As they say, it takes two to tango. Lexa isn't some innocent you're corrupting. She's an adult, and she had the free will, the choice, to walk away-- but she didn't. And that's on her.”

“She did,” Clarke whispers. “She walked away, and I can't blame her for it.”

“I love you, Clarke, but you need to stop taking the blame for everything. Even if it hurts people, don't apologize for what you want. Everyone is selfish when it comes to what they need,” Wells says, glancing down at her. “What else did this nasty bitch say?”

Clarke emits a giggle that turns into a hiccup. “She asked if I was in love with Lexa.”

“Are you?” Wells asks quietly.

“I'm trying really hard to do the right thing.”

Wells smiles sadly and nudges her softly. “That isn't an answer, Clarke.”

Clarke tries to breathe like her lungs aren't on fire and says, “For a long time, I tried very hard not to be. But then I saw her again, and we talked, and we kissed, and everything was different… or maybe it was the same.”

“Good different?”

“Worse,” Clarke sighs, and smoothes a hand through her hair. “Great different. Exceptional different. It was the kind of different that you find once, if you're lucky. I forgot I’d already used up my chance.”

Wells nods, absorbing this information, and stands up. “Get a jacket. We're going out.”

“I… I have work tomorrow, Wells. And this goddamn boot. I can't party with a boot.”

“You deserve something fun, and that's worth being tired for. It doesn't matter about the boot. Plus, I can finally buy you a beer-- or something harder. You still like dancing?”

“Of course,” Clarke counters. “Who _doesn't_? But how am I going to dance with this stupid thing?” Clarke shakes her leg.

Wells twirls around-- having no innate sense of rhythm-- and says, “Like this!”

He's always been a horrible dancer.

Clarke laughs so hard she almost ends up crying again. “What about your clinic, Wells? Your patients need you more than I do.”

“It's still open. An old friend from med school agreed to cover for me for the week.”

Clarke can't really argue with that.

They end up going to a club that's close, not the sports bar where everything began and rapidly accelerated, but a large place marketed to the gay(ish) college crowd. They stick out like a pair of sore thumbs-- older, less enthusiastic, and dressed more casually than the rest of the crowd-- but they have actual fun. They drink far too many fruity alcohol concoctions, and dance like fools in a corner. When they stumble home at 2am, Clarke finds herself sweaty and _smiling_.

They have a water drinking contest, and then Wells puts her to bed (he's always held his alcohol better). He even makes sure to take her boot off, assessing the swelling, and sticks some pillows underneath her ankle. He sets an alarm to rouse her from the dead at 7am, and falls asleep promptly on the couch. In the morning, he drives her to work (she’s been braving the three mile walk so far, but she can't exactly pull that off with a boot) and spends the time sightseeing-- the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, the Smithsonian. She tries to focus at work, but her attention span is minute.

_She's been through enough-- and you might not mean to do it, but you’re going to end up destroying her._

_That's just who you are._

Costia had managed to pinpoint most of her insecurities. But maybe she was right.

Clarke shakes her head, and gets back to work. When it's quitting time, Wells comes back to collect her. They wile away the hours with more booze and video games-- he’s brought his Playstation and they play a zombie shooter game all night. It's engaging, and she’s forced to really focus. She stumbles to the bathroom at some point, and realizes with a gasp that he’s cleaned the mirror. There's not a trace of red left on it.

She comes back out to thank him, but he shakes his head like it's nothing.

Overall, the night is nice. Comfortable.

Fun.

She really, really needs it.

 

The next morning, Clarke brings him along to her biweekly coffee date. She wants to introduce him to Raven and Octavia-- her old friends. Her other best friends. It's a little nerve wracking for her worlds to be colliding.

“Who’s this?” is the first thing Raven says.

“This is Wells,” Clarke replies, smiling at him. “He's a good friend I made in Cali.”

Raven looks him up and down, a little threatened, and lifts her lips a centimeter.

“Nice to meet you, Wells,” Octavia says.

“It's great to meet you, too,” Wells answers. “Clarke talks about the infamous trio all the time. I'm glad we can all talk.”

Raven relaxes by a slight margin, but then barges out with: “So, you knew her from before?”

Wells nods.

“What was she like?”

Clarke feels a little guilty, but smiles at him-- encouraging him to answer.

“Well. Uh... she worked at a gallery. Vista Creations. She was always painting. She liked to do it on the beach with a pina colada the most.” He laughs, and Clarke joins in. “Finn used to surf while she did, but I'm not fond of the water, so I'd hang back and watch. She really was becoming quite popular when she decided to leave. She was… the same as here, I guess.”

Raven stares at her like there are two different Clarkes and she's hurt because she's never met the other. It's not the truth, though-- the Clarke from California is right of her. They're all one in the same. Still, Clarke knows why it hurts so much. Her mother had left her too. She’d left Raven with her father, who had molested her, beaten her, until someone had finally figured it out and called CPS. She had moved into her late grandma's house right down the street from Clarke’s home, which is when they had become friends-- and practically inseparable.

It's why she's taken her anger so willingly.

“That sounds nice. I wish we had beaches here,” Octavia comments.

“That's the one thing I miss,” Clarke replies, and then catches Well’s fading smile. “Other than you, of course, Wellsy.” 

He rolls his eyes, but smiles-- pleased.

“Wellsy?” Octavia questions with a smirk.

“I called him that drunk once and it just caught on,” Clarke admits, flushing. “I guess it's sort of sickeningly cutesy without the context. Sounds normal to me now.”

“Did you know?” Raven nearly interrupts.

“Know what?” Wells counters.

“That Clarke left everyone… that she ran?”

“Yeah. She told me. She talked of it often.”

“And you didn't encourage her to come back?”

“Raven, that wasn't his job,” Clarke says stiffly, giving her a warning glance.

“It's fine, Clarke, and I did, actually,” Wells throws out calmly. “But that was ultimately a decision she had to make herself.”

Raven sips her tea quietly.

“You should come to Darwin’s party on Wednesday, Wells,” Octavia says quickly. “It's an excuse for the adults to get together and drink. It’ll be fun.”

“I'd love to,” Wells replies, smiling.

Once they move onto greener pastures, it's smooth sailing.

 

Time rolls on, and then it's Wednesday-- Darwin’s birthday party.

She’s able to leave work an hour early, and Wells drives them to the toy store. Clarke makes up for lost time by buying damn near half the store-- art supplies and dinosaurs galore. They put the seats down in her car and wrap the presents, laughing at how difficult it is in the small space. She makes sure they arrive to the party early just to avoid any initial awkwardness or drama. She wants to claim a spot and stick to it.

But someone else has the same idea, too.

“Don't park here… oh, okay,” Clarke mutters, seeing it's too late as they come to a stop.

“What?” Wells asks, shifting to park behind a very familiar BMW-- it's been repaired already and looks spotless. Lexa is fiddling with something in the trunk.

“Nothing. Help me carry the presents?” Clarke says, heart hammering.

“Sure thing,” Wells replies, giving her a quick smile before flinging his seatbelt off. “Clarke?” he interrupts right before she works up the nerve to open the door. “It's going to be okay. I'll body check a bitch if I have to.”

Clarke bursts out laughing as she opens the car door. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yup,” he says, already up and out.

The house is majestic-- larger than life-- and it's clear how well they've done for themselves. Clarke can count at least three chimneys alone from the car window. They go to the trunk to gather up a formidable stack of presents. It's a lot to carry for one person, so they divide and conquer. When Clarke leaves the cover of the trunk, safety of the distance, she sees Lexa.

She’s holding her own present, not even trying to act like she isn't staring at them.

“Hey,” Clarke calls casually.

She can be civil. But she's also trying to forget-- which is difficult when Lexa’s staring at her so intently.

“Hello, Clarke,” Lexa replies. “Who’s your friend?” Her eyes flicker to Wells, and she smiles-- but it's not a real one. It's fake and borderline hostile. Clarke wonders who taught her to smile like that, and then realizes: 

Costia.

“Hi! The name’s Wells,” Wells says, bounding up to her like an overeager puppy. He tries to offer her a hand to shake, but can't really while holding so much. Clarke winces.

“This is Lexa Greenwood,” Clarke states, trying to keep her tone nonchalant, but his eyes widen perceptively and he inches back.

“Oh, uh.... nice to finally meet you, Lexa,” he says, chastened.

“The same to you,” Lexa replies, raising an eyebrow. She clearly has no idea who he is. “Seems you two brought enough presents for everyone.”

“Making up for a few birthdays,” Clarke explains.

Lexa nods, but the lines of her face tighten. “Shall we?”

Clarke just nods, and follows her up the full driveway (the kids have already arrived). She side-eyes Wells, who is watching her closely, and shrugs. He gives her a small smile. As they come to stand behind her, Lexa knocks on the door. It takes a long moment for someone to come, and they spend it in an awkward silence, Clarke staring at her back.

Lexa's dressed well again-- slacks and a grey crisp and ironed shirt.

They must have fancy clients at work.

With a pang, Clarke remembers the jacket in a heap behind her couch. She really needs to get that back to her. It's a little ridiculous.

Then Lincoln opens the door, and sort of stares at them all for a too long second. “Hey, uh… Lexa, Clarke… you must be Wells?”

“Yeah, man, it's great to meet you,” Wells says as they file in.

“You too,” Lincoln replies easily.

“Jesus, Clarke,” Octavia says, gliding into the foyer. She has cake on her cheek and a lopsided birthday hat on. It makes her look a little demented, but in a cute domestic way. “Do you think you bought my kid enough?”

“Well, I'm mentoring a young artist here,” Clarke replies, laughing. She hands her pile to Lincoln, who goes off to set it somewhere, and Wells follows with his own. “I've got him the essentials: chalk, charcoal, paint, colored pencils, markers… and some dinosaurs.”

“Jesus,” Octavia repeats, rolling her eyes. She turns to Lexa. “And you? What do you have there? Not more arts and crafts, I hope.”

Lexa sets her own heavy box down. “No… it's a motorized tricycle, but it's safe, I swear.”

“So, you brought things that stain and you brought a motorized weapon of destruction,” Octavia surmises.

“He’ll love that, though,” Clarke says, rolling her own eyes. “And put down a tarp or only let him do it on tile for the stainables.”

“Easier said than done,” Octavia counters, smiling. “I'm glad both of you came. The adults and drinks are out back.” A child screams in the distance, and she darts back down a hallway. However, there's several hallways because the house is gargantuan. When Lexa leaves the box in the foyer with a shrug and veers down another hallway, Clarke hesitantly follows.

“Lost?” Lexa asks over a shoulder.

“A bit. I've never been here,” Clarke counters.

“It's a big house,” Lexa concedes, slowing down so they can walk side by side.

“It is. Where's uh… Costia?”

 _Why the fuck_ did she feel the need to ask that? This is so awkward.

“I'm not sure,” is all Lexa says.

(Did she really not know?

Likely, it was none of her business.)

Clarke nods like her answer makes sense, and keeps her mouth shut for the duration of the journey. Eventually, they emerge out of a sliding door, and there are mostly new faces-- probably parents of the kids inside. She can't spot any of the familiar crowd, but she is early. It doesn't explain where Wells wandered off to, though.

Lexa immediately goes to the table with the alcohol on it. Clarke heads there too, but picks the opposite side, which only has… rum and tequila. 

“I've made worse decisions,” she mumbles, pouring herself a small cup of straight tequila.

“What?” Lexa asks, pausing.

“Nothing,” Clarke replies, also grabbing a soda and heading towards-- well, anyone else. The closest person appears to be a mother sporting faded brown hair and khakis.

“Hi! Nice set up, huh?” Clarke says.

The woman smiles at her. “It really is. They always outdo themselves. Do you have a kid here or are you part of the family?”

Clarke is about to answer when the woman interrupts, “Oh, is this your wife?” 

Clarke turns to see Lexa behind her. She’s obviously heard the conversation as she’s hiding behind a beer while sporting a deer in the headlights expression. Clarke almost chuckles but can't because it's all so goddamn tragic-- and it's not like khaki pants will understand. “I'm afraid not,” she says, tipping the tequila back into her mouth. She grimaces and cracks open the Sprite a second later. “I'm a friend of the family.”

The woman nods, looking between them like she can smell what they've done, and then Wells walks over and saves her. Thank fuck.

“You need another drink?” he asks.

“Most definitely,” Clarke replies, smiling politely at the woman (and ignoring Lexa) before following him to the table. 

She sticks to beer.

 

The party progresses.

Lexa takes camp on one side of the yard, helping Lincoln grill and make cocktails, and Clarke and Wells take the other side, the one where most of the parents sit and talk. It's not very exciting, but it's stressless.

Raven and Anya make an appearance about an half hour after they arrive. Raven veers toward Clarke and Anya goes to Lexa; Clarke feels bad for being the reason why they separate. She remembers when they used to all hang out as a big group in college. There wasn't much strife then-- it was easy and for the most part, everyone got along well. But everything's different now.

Sébastien is strapped to Raven’s front, and even Wells coos at the sight of him. 

“Can I hold him? I've got baby fever bad,” Clarke says.

“God, yes,” Raven huffs. “He doesn't look like it, but he's heavy. Just be careful.”

“Of course,” Clarke replies. She's not even buzzed anymore, having made Wells go fetch them hamburgers and chips and more soda, electing to stay firmly entrenched on her side of the backyard.

Sébastien has green eyes-- Raven's eyes-- and when he smiles, he looks similar to Anya.

“You're immaculately gorgeous,” Clarke says, petting his chunky cheeks. "Like a cherub."

“He is handsome,” Wells adds, playing with his hand. “He's got a great grip, too.”

Clarke smiles, and then her attention gets caught up by a glint, which she notices is the metal spatula Lincoln is using to flip a burges, and then her eyes shift beside him, to Lexa, who is watching them. They share a long look, and Lexa is trying to say _something_ to her, but Sébastien burps and their moment ends and whatever it is is forever lost in translation.

The party is mildly boring, a lot of parents talking about their children-- despite the fact that the children are hidden away in the house and Clarke hasn't even got to wish Darwin so much as a happy birthday yet. When Bellamy shows up, he sets up a large sound system and it becomes a little more lively. They talk a bit, and it's the first time since that night where it got a little weird, but Bellamy doesn't make it awkward at all. If anything, he seems to understand-- to have expected the reaction.

After the sun has gone down, Wells declares, “Let's dance, Clarke!” 

“Are you crazy?” she counters. “No one else is dancing, Wells.”

“Come on,” Wells pouts. “You love dancing. Everyone else will start after we do.”

Clarke sighs. “If you get me another tequila.”

“Done,” he grins. 

A moment later, a cup is pushed into her hands. She downs it in one go, and shakes her head when Wells pulls her up by the hand. There's a makeshift dance floor set up, but no one has utilized it so far, opting for discussion. There's some Rihanna remix blasting out of speakers, and it's perfect for dancing. Clarke is ultra aware how the attention of almost everyone seems to shift onto them when they go to the center of the floor. They start with silly moves, twirling and bouncing around, which ends up with them giggling madly at each other. 

Then Raven and Anya join them as well as another straight couple she doesn't recognize.

Another fast song comes on, and more people join. Lincoln and Octavia dance up to them, and Clarke dances with Octavia, grinding like fools as they used to in college. It's mildly provocative-- or at least looks so-- but Clarke keeps feeling bursts of laughter welling up out of her. The tequila is making her looser, making her hips roll naturally. She isn't sure how long she bounces around dancing with everyone-- Bellamy twirls her around and they do something similar to a tango for awhile-- but a slow song comes on and everyone settles into couples.

Wells is dancing with one of the random moms, and it definitely looks like he's enjoying it. Clarke's happy for him.

She's about to get off the dance floor when there's a tap on her shoulder. She turns as if in slow motion, tequila and the sweet melody flowing through her, and sees Lexa.

“Want to dance?” Lexa asks, eyebrows raising as though she's daring Clarke to say no, which she really should.

Clarke throws her a reproachful glance. “You don't dance.”

“I learned,” Lexa replies.

(Clarke doesn't even know how many times she tried to coax her into dancing-- to teach her. It hurts that someone else was able to.)

Clarke takes her hand-- _civil_ \-- and smiles. 

Now that she's actually let herself try, Lexa’s a great dancer. They keep a little distance between their bodies, and while they're still joined by the hands, all Clarke can feel is her own heartbeat thumping erratically.

“Costia won't appreciate this,” Clarke murmurs.

“Costia’s gone.”

“Costia's gone?” Clarke repeats.

Lexa nods, and gives her a long glance.

“On vacation?” Clarke asks carefully, trying not to let eagerness seep into her tone. She hadn't known what to think of Costia's visit.

Lexa rolls her eyes. “She's not on vacation.”

“You aren't together anymore?”

“No, Clarke,” Lexa says with a hint of sadness-- vulnerability. “I broke up with her.”

Clarke inhales raggedly. “When?” 

“The night of the crash,” Lexa murmurs.

The music transforms into something with a hard beat that Clarke can't quite hear through the roaring of blood in her ears.

This shouldn't change anything, but this changes _everything_.)

“Oh,” Clarke says, adding neutrally, “I still need to return your jacket.”

“Keep it,” Lexa counters. “I can buy a new one. Besides, you look better in it.”

Clarke laughs. “As if.”

That causes a hint of a smile to appear on Lexa’s face, and they shift into more casual dancing, which ends with Clarke turning around and moving her hips into Lexa’s. It isn't quite as lewd as her earlier dancing with Octavia, and it clearly doesn't bother Lexa as her hands are gripping Clarke’s hips like she may never let go, but it's probably not quite the right thing to do. Their hips meet, and Clarke tries to savor how this feels because it may never happen again: the beat, how the night feels, the fairy lights, the liquor making her warm, her hips, the hands on her… Lexa.

They move together for a long time-- for a couple of songs-- and it's like they're alone. There's bound to be someone watching them in disapproval, but all she can feel, all she can focus on, is Lexa’s hands, her body, her breath on her shoulder, and the slight breeze.

It's a similar feeling to a lot of her memories-- except Lexa never danced with her before. It feels glaringly intimate now.

And it's overwhelming.

It's too much.

Clarke stops abruptly, and Lexa follows her cue, stepping away to give her some room.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she mutters, trying to control her pace to a nonchalant stroll when she wants to run the opposite way.

She gets into the house, and after a few tries, eventually stumbles upon a bathroom. She closes the door, and locks it, and sags against the sink. She’s staring at the wall and breathing hard when there's a knock.

“I'm fine, Wells!” she calls.

“It's not Wells,” Lexa says.

Clarke jerks, and looks at the door as if it’ll come alive. There's a moment of silence before she steps forward to unlock it. Lexa opens the door, stepping in, and closes it again. Then she locks it, which isn't lost on Clarke. Clarke's breathing is loud and tears are beginning to sprout in her eyes as they stare at each other. 

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” Lexa asks.

Clarke shakes her head in the negative.

“What is it?” she probes, stepping closer. 

“Just… it felt like…”

“Like it used to?” Lexa murmurs.

Clarke nods. “I'm trying to… I… we can't…”

Lexa steps closer, and then her hips are pressing into Clarke's again. “Why not?”

“It's … Costia…” Clarke squeaks. Her eyes lower to Lexa’s mouth and she jerks her entire head up to _stop that._

“That was never your burden to bear, Clarke. It was mine-- and I took care of it.”

Clarke stares at her, and she doesn't try to control the expression on her face, which is such a strange combination of guilt and regret and hesitation and _desire_.

(She wants Lexa.

And she doesn't have limitless self-control.)

Lexa’s hand drags up to her face, cupping her cheek gently, and then she's whispering, “You're so beautiful.”

“Even with the boot?” Clarke counters, trying to lighten this moment, which feels so sharp, raw, and deadly that she may not even manage to survive afterward.

“Especially with the boot,” Lexa says.

“You've only gotten better looking with age,” Clarke murmurs. “You carry it well.”

Lexa smiles, and it's happening again-- even though Clarke _swore_ and _promised_ and _vowed_ and said _goodbye_ for the last time.

It's going to happen anyway.

Their lips meet, and Clarke loses all of her hesitancy. It just feels so good, so fucking right in this world of constant wrongs, and she can't help it, can't fight it, when her whole reason to has been removed so completely.

Lexa tangles her hands in Clarke’s hair, tugging slightly, and Clarke all but whimpers against her mouth like this is her first time and she's a teenage boy that's going to prematurely ejaculate all over the place. (She may.) Lexa chuckles into her mouth, and Clarke shifts a thigh between her legs to try to gain the upper hand again. 

Lexa’s eyes flash, and they dive back together to spend long perfect minutes lost. Clarke doesn't even notice when she starts to rock her hips against Lexa's leg, craving friction-- craving more-- but Lexa does.

“Do you want me?” Lexa murmurs, sliding her lips down to her neck. She bites down, and Clarke jerks before nodding-- she’s not thinking anything but how good this feels, how much she needs it, how much she wants it. (How she wants them to be together.)

But Lexa pulls away, and Clarke's eyes snap open. “I want to hear you admit it, Clarke,” Lexa reprimands, eyes dark, blown.

Something ignites in Clarke’s belly, and it spreads through her torso, her limbs, and she's on fire everywhere. “I want you. Please, Lexa,” Clarke says a little breathlessly-- honestly, she wants all of her.

Lexa gives her a satisfied smirk and bends to suck so hard on her pulse that there has to be a mark, but Clarke doesn't even care because her hand goes underneath her dress a second later. She rubs her through her underwear gently, and after all these years, remembers what she likes-- soft touches that turn harder when Clarke gets needy and pushes against her hand. 

“You're so wet,” Lexa whispers, sliding into her panties. Clarke stares back at her with a guilty expression, hips bearing down, and then they're kissing while Lexa explores her.

She groans when Lexa yanks her panties down roughly and slides inside her. Lexa thrusts slowly, letting her get used to it, moving down to suck on her neck again as she knows how much Clarke likes it.

“Fuck,” Clarke spits. “Shit…”

Lexa speeds up, managing to be inside her and yet stimulating her clit at the same time. “Did you forget how good I can make you feel?” she asks. There's a feral grin stretching her face wide, and the sight almost makes Clarke come on the spot.

“No,” she manages to moan.

“Do you think of me doing this to you when you turn off the lights?” Lexa whispers, trailing up to her ear and nipping it sharply.

“Too… too often,” Clarke admits, opening her eyes. Lexa pulls back and stares her down, eyes softening as her hands speeds up. 

Clarke loses herself in the pleasure, but she still hears loud and clear when Lexa adds, “Don't fuck him later and think about me.”

Clarke cracks an eye open. “Fuck who?”

“Wells.”

“We don't,” Clarke says, eyes fluttering as she gasps, “He's one of my best friends.”

“Don't fuck any of them,” Lexa replies in a demanding tone, face grave with no trace of a smile left. “Please,” she adds softly-- pleading.

“I don't… I won't.” Clarke can feel herself nearing the edge, teetering on it, as she tries to take in Lexa’s face, which is an odd mixture of sadness and arousal.

“Good. Don't forget. Don't forget how I make you feel. Don’t forget… about me.”

“I don't know how to forget you, Lexa,” Clarke replies, almost delirious with pleasure but still concerned, eyes focused on Lexa as her hips jerk everywhere. There's a knock on the door, and Clarke's eyes widen and the adrenaline kicks her into overdrive-- and she's finally coming. Her mouth opens and Lexa's hand slaps over it, muffling the shallow scream.

“Clarke?” Wells calls. “Are you okay?”

Clarke doesn't answer because Lexa’s hand is covering her mouth, and their foreheads are pushed together and they're staring at each other. She can't seem to stop coming and Lexa's hand sure as hell isn't stopping despite the intrudance, adamant on milking every bit of pleasure out of her that she can.

She thinks she eventually hears Wells walking away, and finally, Clarke sags against Lexa’s chest, exhausted after how many times she's been pushed over the edge. Lexa's hands slip off her mouth and out of her, and she's suddenly wrapping her arms around Clarke so tightly she can barely breathe.

“What's wrong?” Clarke says. Her hips are tilted on the counter awkwardly and her underwear is somewhere around her knees, but she returns the gesture immediately.

“Nothing,” Lexa murmurs, stroking her shoulder. “It's not… It's pathetic.”

“You could never be pathetic,” Clarke whispers, tightening her grip.

“I don't want to ruin this,” Lexa counters.

“You won't,” Clarke assures her, breathing in Lexa's smell-- peppermint and hamburgers and what she finally identifies as herself.

“It's just... not enough,” Lexa admits.

Clarke blinks rapidly at the words, and then feels her eyes filling up again, and it's not so much the orgasms as what Lexa has said. Or what she _hasn't_ said.

They should be happy, but all Clarke can think is:

_It's just… not enough._

She… wasn't enough for Lexa.

_It's just… not enough._

But Lexa was more than enough for Clarke. 

_It's just… not enough._

Lexa was everything.

And she always had been.

And she probably always would be.

But this had just been a _fuck_ for Lexa-- a fuck she had broken the heart of her fiancée for. For the first time, Clarke doesn't recognize the woman before her. Clarke hopes she's satisfied, because Lexa has ruined this with just four words.

_It's just… not enough._

And it will never happen again. 

Someone pounds on the door, making them both startle, and Wells calls, “Clarke?”

“Yeah, hold on,” Clarke replies. She disengages, letting her arms fall, and Lexa steps away. She pulls up her panties shamelessly, and fixes her hair, before glancing at Lexa. “I guess… I... we’ve both changed too much.” Clarke shakes her head and opens the door.

Wells is on the other side, and when he makes eye contact with Lexa, he raises an eyebrow. Clarke, wanting to give her some privacy, pulls the door shut behind her.

Lexa sits on the edge of the bathtub and listens to their retreating footsteps. She wants to get up, wants to make a heroic scene, but she’s scared. She's so scared.

The truth is she's so weak.

For Clarke. Always for Clarke.

Clarke has so much power over her.

And it's terrifying. It's always been.

They've both been idiots.

They've both made mistakes.

Clarke has the bad habit of misunderstanding, of running far, far away before anyone can explain. And Lexa has the bad habit of actually letting her go.

“It's not enough to just have sex with you,” Lexa whispers into an empty room.

Something breaks inside of her, and it isn't only her heart for once. It's the part of her that keeps allowing this to happen. She knows that now after they've fucked quick and dirty, it isn't the right moment to go after Clarke, but there will be _a_ moment.

Because Lexa, hand still wet with the essence of Clarke Griffin, comes up with a plan while she sits on the edge of a bathtub at her best friend’s son’s birthday party. This time, she isn't settling. She's strapping a sword on and going to war-- she's going to fight. She's going to fucking communicate. For them.

For a future together.

A future she knows they both see.

A future she knows they both want.

She wants Clarke by her side.

She wants everything.

She always has.

And she probably always will.


	8. Act VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: hella feelings and talk of death

“Clarke, what the hell was that?” Wells calls.

Clarke doesn't answer as she walks out the front door and down the porch steps. Mercifully, there's no one around but Wells to witness the aftermath of their bathroom moment-- of her destruction, of their mistake.

“Did she break up with her fiancée?”

“Yeah,” Clarke deadpans.

“Then what's so wrong?”

“Give me the keys,” is all Clarke says.

Wells shoots her a surprised look and tosses them to her. “You're driving?”

“No better time than the present to get over something,” Clarke snaps, opening the driver's door more forcefully than needed.

“Can you even drive with the boot?”

“It's on my left foot, Wells.”

“Why are you mad?”

“I'm not mad,” Clarke says. She turns the car on, but taps on the gas pedal so hard they jerk as the car races off-- and away.

She's running again, but damn, she needs the _distance_.

She needs to get so far away from here that she forgets where here is.

She needs to forget how close they were to something she can't bring herself to name. 

“Right,” Wells replies, and she can sense the doubtful look through the dark.

Clarke sighs, and then she stops a block away, pulling to the side of the road.

Wells takes this as an invitation to gently probe, “Clarke, what happened in there?”

“Thought it was obvious,” Clarke says darkly-- her brows are knitted together, hands fisting.

“I know you um… did it, but what made you so upset? Isn't that what you wanted?”

“That's not even close to what I wanted,” Clarke whispers, anger finally cracking in half to reveal what lay underneath. Hurt.

She didn't want to be _just_ Lexa’s fuck.

She wanted to be everything.

“What do you want?”

Clarke laughs, but the sound is all wrong-- so harsh-- and says, “What I want doesn't exist anymore. What I want will _never_ happen. I've been kidding myself. It's time to stop.”

Wells shakes his head. “What did she say?”

“She said it wasn't enough.”

“It wasn't?”

Clarke looks at the moon-- round, white, innocent in a way. It's a long moment before she whispers, “Not for her.”

“But it was for you?” Wells guesses.

Clarke, lost for words, can only nod.

“I'm sorry. It must have really hurt to hear that. I know how much she means to you.”

“Yeah, well, she shouldn't.”

Wells looks out into the black night to add, “It doesn't make sense. Why would she break it off if she wasn't sure?”

“Maybe… she decided after. I don't know,” Clarke replies. 

She's trying so hard not to cry.

This doesn't deserve her tears. Not anymore.

“If not the best, the most efficient way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else. Or bottom. I don't judge.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I have a date on Friday, but… I'm thinking of cancelling.”

“Now, why would you do that?” Wells drawls.

She levels him with slightly widened eyes.

“You can't give up because of her, Clarke.”

Clarke sighs, fiddling with the hem of her dress. “I know I can't.”

“You gonna tell your date what happened?”

“I wouldn't be a good person if I didn't,” she murmurs.

“You are a good person. Don't forget.”

_Don't forget._

_Don't forget how I make you feel._

_Don't forget… about me._

Clarke wouldn't. She would leave, they would stop talking, but she couldn't fix the core truth of the matter. She never could.

“I know… I know,” Clarke says, taking a deep breath. She can feel the sadness on her like something physically crouching on her back. “No matter what, I've got you and everyone else and my job and art. It's enough.”

Wells throws her a sad glance. “The truth is you don't need her. You've got everything you need to make it inside yourself, Clarke.”

“Don't be a cheesy motherfucker, Wells,” Clarke says, sitting up. “I know I don't need her. We were together for six years when I left. I think if I had stayed a part of me would have always wondered if I _did_ need her. She was always so successful in whatever she did... it took me awhile to get where I am. But I think I proved that I could make it on my own when I left. I don't need her. I just… wanted her.”

“Jesus. Are you sure you don't want to turn the car around?” Wells asks.

Clarke closes her eyes and lets herself dream. 

She puts the car in reverse and they race back to there.

She gets out of the car and Lexa’s on the porch.

They stare at each other for a split second before running into each other's arms. 

They hug and whisper romantic declarations and kiss under the moonlight.

Everything is restored to its natural order, and there's nothing wrong with this vision, it's perfect, but that's because it's a _fantasy_.

Clarke opens her eyes.

_It's just… not enough._

This is life-- and it's more complicated.

Because life is breathtaking.

And life is cruel.

She starts the car, and it carries them home.

 

Clarke awakes in the morning to an alarm trying to goad her to get up in time for the biweekly coffee meeting. She hits snooze.

Her cell phone wakes her up next. It's 9:23, and a text lights up the screen. She ignores it.

The next time her eyes open, someone is hovering over here-- and it's not Wells.

“Clarke?”

“What?” she mumbles, caught in the fragile state between sleep and waking where anything could be real-- could be true.

But it isn't Lexa's voice.

It's Octavia’s.

“You okay?”

“Well, I was asleep,” Clarke says, voice raspy. She sits up and blinks at Octavia a few times.

“You missed our coffee meeting.”

“There’ll be more coffees,” Clarke replies, slumping down with her back towards Octavia.

“Wells told us what happened, Clarke.”

“Traitor,” Clarke mutters.

“We’re your friends, too. We care.”

Clarke closes her eyes. “Nobody cares.”

“Bullshit,” Raven announces, striding in the room. “You've got us all. We care.”

Clarke sits up to toss a pillow at her. 

“Listen up, Clarke, alright?” Raven says, deflecting it with a hand. “I'm only saying this once. You don't get to shut down here.”

Clarke grits her teeth. “I never get to shut down,” she replies. “Nobody ever lets me forget that I fucked up. I have to be happy and fine because I'm doing penance for all my mistakes. You know what? _Fuck you_ , Raven. I'm not even remotely okay, and I'm fucking exhausted of pretending. I can't do it today. Please just leave me alone.”

“Clarke, I didn't mean you had to be okay-- but you have to communicate. If you're sad, fine, but tell us why. Don't be sad by yourself.”

Clarke shoves a pillow over her head. “I'm sad… because I am,” she mumbles. She feels the bed dip, and realizes they've both crawled onto either side of her. 

“Dig a little deeper, Clar,” Raven suggests.

“I'm sad because of… because of her.”

“Because of Lexa,” Octavia fills in.

Clarke nods through the pillow, which isn't very efficient communication, but they both seem to get what she means anyway.

“What did Lexa do that made you upset?” 

Clarke focuses on breathing, wiping her tears off on the fabric of the pillow. 

“Use your words, Clarke,” Octavia says gently.

“I can't talk about it because then it's real. It’s real... it hurts.”

“It hurts because it matters,” Raven whispers. “So, what did she do that matters so much?”

“She told me it wasn't enough.”

“She just straight up told you that?” Raven questions.

“Yeah,” Clarke admits. “After we had sex in the bathroom.”

“You had sex? In _my_ bathroom?" Octavia takes a deep breath. "I'm going to have scrub the shit out of that room. Alright, repeat verbatim what she said,” she instructs, ready to analyze.

It’s like they’re in college again.

But they’re not. Clarke’s an adult, and she’s supposed to have her life figured out.

Not having a quickie in a bathroom at a child's birthday party.

“I'm sorry," Clarke whispers guiltily to Octavia, adding, “She said... 'It’s just… not enough.’” 

“Shit,” Raven interjects.

“You didn't tell me she broke up with Costia,” Clarke mumbles through the pillow.

“Well, I haven't heard much and I figured you’d want to hear it from her,” Raven replies. “Seemed like the kind of info you should hear straight from the source. I mean I assumed she dumped Costia for a reason.”

Clarke takes the pillow off her face, blinking at the harsh light filtering through her bedroom window, and sits up. All she’s got on is a sports bra and shorts, but nobody in the bed cares. “I'm angry. No, I'm embarrassed," she clarifies. "I threw myself at her, and we collided, and I thought everything was good, but it turns out… what? She was using me? She's a horrible person? I don't know.”

“Honey, anyone with half an eye can see that Lexa Greenwood still loves you,” Octavia says. “So, this doesn't make sense to me.”

“Nothing makes sense,” Clarke growls. “Nothing is _changing_ , so I guess I have to.”

“ _You_ are not the problem,” Raven counters.

“I am. I am the common denominator here.”

“No, you're not,” Octavia says, getting in her face to stare her down. “Say that again, Clarke Griffin, and I will slap you. You may have made mistakes just like every other human being, but you aren't the problem, okay? It’s more complicated than that.”

Clarke exhales. “Still.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m moving on.”

“I'll support you no matter what,” Raven replies.

“Me too,” Octavia echoes.

“I'm sorry I didn't use my words. It's… it got to me. It's getting to me. Lexa is wrapped up in everything. In my dad. In Finn, even, somehow. And especially in this damn place.”

“Letting go is hard,” Octavia agrees.

“You've got to know when to hold on and when to let go,” Raven adds.

“I'm letting go. I mean I don't really have a choice anymore. This whole situation sucks.”

Raven touches her shoulder in solidarity. “I've got your back, Clarke. We both do.”

“We’re best friends for life,” Octavia adds.

Clarke smiles weakly. “We are. I’m just mad… mostly at myself. For falling for it all again.”

“It’s understandable,” Raven states.

“Is it? I’m sick to death of thinking about it all.” Clarke sighs. “Did you bring coffee? After all, that's the ultimate test of friendship.” 

“Duh,” Octavia replies, rolling her eyes. “Hopefully, Wells hasn't ate all the scones.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. “He loves scones! They're his only weakness.”

Pushing each other over, they all scramble to race out of the bedroom.

It's forward.

It's… moving on.

And thankfully, it turns out that Wells hasn't actually ate all the scones. He's only ate two.

 

Though both of them have the day off, Raven and Octavia eventually vacate seeing as they both have busy lives to return to. Wells and Clarke spend the day hanging out. It's lowkey, which Clarke is grateful for, and consists mostly of them watching cheesy movies-- although never cheesy movies about _love_ \-- and devouring Thai takeout.

It’s exactly what she needs.

Around 3pm, the telltale Britney Spears song plays. Abby’s calling.

“Clarke?”

“Yeah, mom?” Clarke answers, throwing a piece of popcorn in the air. She tries to catch it in her mouth, but it hits her on the nose. Wells snickers, and she sticks her tongue out at him.

“How’s your ankle?” Abby asks.

“It's starting to feel a lot better,” she answers.

“And you've been letting it breathe at night?”

Clarke groans, but smiles a beat later. “Yes, mom.”

“What’re you doing?” Abby asks.

“Watching movies,” Clarke replies, distracted by the gruesome bloodshed of the b-horror flick on the TV. “Oh, shit, did you see that?” she whispers to Wells when a head goes flying. It's disgusting, but satisfying as the character was annoying.

“Is someone with you?” Abby asks.

“Wells is,” Clarke replies.

“Wells? Is that a person…?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says, sitting down the popcorn. She focuses on the person in her ear. “He's one of my friends from California. The only good one as it turns out.”

“Oh, you didn't tell me you had someone visiting! Bring him over for dinner!”

“You sure?” she mumbles. 

“Of course,” Abby insists, sounding like she's smiling. “I'll even cook!”

Clarke frowns, considering that declaration only means disaster. “5pm work?”

“That's perfect!”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to bring something to eat? That’s edible?”

“You love my home cooking, Clarke,” Abby replies, laughing.

Clarke joins in.

And so, that is how they end up going to have dinner with Abby and Marcus.

 

“You look good, Clarke,” Wells throws out casually. He's adjusting his sock as they loiter in front of Abby's door.

“Thanks. I like your suit. Suits you,” Clarke says, and they both laugh at her pun. “You ready to do this? My mom can be selectively… overbearing at times.”

“Well, she is a surgeon. I've been to medical school, I know the type-- the politics. Don't worry about me. I got this,” Wells replies, flashing her a smile.

Clarke nods and moves to knock on the door.

It turns out that Wells _does_ have this. Abby and Marcus take an immediate liking to him.

It's almost too much.

“This is actually really good,” Clarke comments, trying to keep the shock out of her tone as she forks another mouthful of fish in her mouth. It's delicious and tender.

“Marcus did most of it,” Abby replies, rolling her eyes as she wipes her mouth. “It seems you two feel the same about my _wonderful_ cooking.” 

Clarke nods in understanding, and Marcus shoots her a privately amused smile. So, he knows-- and at least he's taking the time to prevent the latest kitchen disaster. The dinner is a pleasant affair, even though Abby keeps shooting her these little looks that Clarke can only presume mean how much she actually likes Wells. Clarke knows she always wanted her to marry a doctor. Not this one, she thinks.

Eventually, Marcus, intent on showing Wells some article about nonprofit clinics that he _has to see_ , drags him away, leaving the two Griffin women alone with their wine.

“Wells is great,” Abby says suggestively.

“He’s wonderful. One of my best friends,” Clarke deadpans.

Abby gives her a long look before smiling. “I heard Niylah and you have a date.”

“How’d you pry that out of her?”

“I have my ways.”

Clarke snorts, amused. 

“It's your father’s anniversary in a few days,” Abby adds.

“I know,” Clarke replies, a slight frown eroding her happy mood.

“Will you visit his grave with me?”

Clarke falters, but sticks her chin up and replies, “Of course.” 

“He would have been proud of you, Clarke. You know that, right, sweetie?”

Clarke swallows her wine, which has taken on a bitter edge. “Even after what I did?” 

Abby nods. “He would have understood.”

“Did you?” Clarke counters, shooting her mother a guilty glance as she swirls her wine around.

“I did,” Abby replies. “I was confused and hurt, but I did understand why you left.”

“I never should have left you like that. You needed someone, too.” Clarke looks away. “I'm still sorry about that. I still… regret it.”

“I know you do, baby, but I forgave you a long time ago. All that matters is you came back.”

Clarke nods. “Do you miss him?” she asks. “I miss him so much sometimes.” 

“I miss him every day,” Abby replies, swallowing.

“Was it hard when you started dating Marcus?” Clarke asks carefully.

“It was. For a long time, I didn’t want to date. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone else. I loved your father as much as I love you. That love never ended.” 

“Sometimes, love never does end, I guess,” Clarke admits. “You just learn… how to live without them-- how to survive.” Abby shoots her a knowing glance, which is way too close to admitting the truth, so she adds, “Marcus is great, though. I can tell he really loves you.” 

Abby smiles, and grabs her hand. “I’m glad you think so. He thinks you're wonderful.” 

Clarke isn't sure if she's telling the exact truth about that, but she returns her mother's smile anyway.

Wells and Marcus, talking adamantly, stride back into the dining room. They play poker, and drink more wine, and laugh. Clarke never realized her mom was this much fun. It’s weird how their relationship has changed as she became an adult. It’s easier, somehow.

They get back home late.

 

Wells, saying he has a few more places he wants to visit, drops her off to Starbucks the next morning. It's early and she's nervous, which turns her stomach into a nightmare of knots that ease at the first sight of the smile Niylah shoots her.

“Clarke,” Niylah says. She’s got a bouquet of dandelions in her hand that she thrusts outwards.

“Hi, Niylah,” Clarke greets, taking the flowers-- or, well, weeds, technically speaking. “You picked these yourself?”

Niylah looks embarrassed for a moment, but recovers. “I had a late night. I apologize I didn't have the time to get you something nicer. You deserve that.”

“Don't apologize. They're beautiful,” Clarke says earnestly. “I didn't even bring you anything.”

“You brought yourself. That’s enough,” is all Niylah replies.

They get in line to get coffees, and have just managed to sit down at a corner table when Niylah’s phone goes off in an insistent beep. She makes an apologetic face, but picks it up. Clarke smiles politely. She understands this at least. The constant phone calls, the missing person, the apologies-- they were all a part of her childhood. The world stops for no one, and especially not the doctors who are tasked with saving it.

“Fuck,” Niylah says, throwing her phone into her pocket. “I'm supposed to be off, but there was an accident with the other intern. They need me. Would you hate me if I cut this short?”

“Of course not,” Clarke replies easily. “You have a duty to the hospital. I understand that.”

“Do you… are you willing to reschedule?” 

“Absolutely,” Clarke grins. “What's your availability?”

“Does Sunday work? It would have to be at night, but I could take you on a proper date-- real flowers and candles and steaks. You in?”

“Definitely.” Clarke pulls out her own phone. “I'm going to call Wells really quick to get him to turn around.”

“Oh, you didn't drive?” Niylah replies, wide-eyed.

“No, my friend is visiting. He dropped me off.”

“I'll take you back,” Niylah assures. “They needed me there in thirty, and I can drive fast.”

“Are you sure? It sounded important--”

“You're important, too, Clarke,” Niylah interrupts.

“If you're sure,” Clarke replies with a hint of a smile.

“I am. Maybe I'll even get a goodbye kiss if I play my cards right,” Niylah winks.

“You just might,” Clarke laughs. 

Niylah holds a hand out for her own, and she takes it.

Niylah’s purple Prius ushers them back to Clarke’s apartment. She does drive fast, and it leaves Clarke with a twinge of fear that keeps lessening every day. To her surprise, Niylah insists on going up the five stories to walk her to her front door.

“Do you need anything before you go? Food, water? I know how it is,” Clarke says, pausing after she’s unlocked it. Niylah is nice, and she’s considerate and funny. She could see them working together-- she wants to be good to her.

“I would take a water if you would be so gracious. That coffee dehydrated me.”

“Right away,” Clarke retorts mildly flirtatiously. They go in, and Niylah mills around her work area, which is really the area in front of her windows in the living room, as Clarke quickly grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.

“These paintings are beautiful,” Niylah calls.

“Oh, thanks, they're just a little set I've been working on,” Clarke says, assuming she’s talking about the series of sunsets she’s been working on. It’s different from her usual work, but she likes them all the same. She walks back into the room and freezes, which Niylah notices.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry if I overstepped,” Niylah replies. “But they're gorgeous.”

They’re not the paintings she thought. 

The paintings in question had been carefully placed off onto the side-- covered with a sheet in the corner. It's mildly intrusive, but Clarke wouldn't even mind if it wasn't for what the paintings were of-- of what they meant.

“It's fine,” Clarke replies thickly, holding the bottle of water out. “They're… unfinished.”

Niylah nods. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is that?” Niylah probes, pointing to the woman painted beside her.

There’s four paintings. The first features only her-- the old her, teenage Clarke (pre-disaster Clarke). The second has both her… and Lexa. They’re facing each other, they’re happy, sitting in Pancake House. The third has them both as well, but she’s walking out of the frame as Lexa watches. And the fourth is just her again. She’s looking out over the waves in California. 

“That's … Complicated,” Clarke just says. 

She's about to force herself to explain what happened in Octavia Blake’s bathroom-- she owes it to Niylah to be honest-- when there's a knock on the door. 

“Ugh, it's Wells. He's always forgetting the spare key I made for him,” Clarke explains.

She runs to the door, an act Niylah registers with a smile, and hurls it open. “Wells, you couldn't have even had the time to see anything!” 

“Wrong again,” Lexa counters.

“Lexa?” Clarke chokes out, dizzy from the sudden shock of Lexa Greenwood, dressed impeccably well, standing before her.

“Clarke,” Lexa nods, suddenly blushing and overly formal. “Do you have a moment?” 

She’s holding white roses loosely in one hand. Clarke watches as a petal falls off and sinks to the ground.

And then, she steels herself. “No… I'm… I have company right now,” Clarke says.

“I just need a minute,” Lexa replies.

There's a long moment as Clarke takes in the pleading look, crosses her arms, and carefully replies, “Alright. You have a minute.”

Lexa hands her the roses, which Clarke takes without thinking, inhaling the scent, so fresh and crisp, deep into her lungs. Niylah curiously patters to the door-- probably about to take her leave, but blocked from doing so by the scene before them. Lexa takes a deep breath and sinks to her knees.

Clarke’s eyes widen. “Lexa, what are you doing? Get up,” she whispers.

Niylah peeks around the door. “Is this Complicated?” she asks. Clarke nods slightly.

“You're on a date?” Lexa asks, hurt seeping into her tone. She shakes her head a second later. “It doesn't matter. I have to say this.”

“Say _what_ , Lexa? What is there left to say?”

“A lot,” Lexa admits. “A lifetime of things.”

Clarke softens before closing her eyes briefly and waiting for whatever Lexa has to say. Lexa's words will probably destroy her, but she can't bring herself to do anything about it.

“We aren't together because of a series of idiotic misunderstandings. We’ve both been so incredibly stupid,” Lexa starts, eyes latching onto Clarke and pulling her in. “You left me but I let you go-- and I've left now, too. But it's been five years and I still _love you_ , Clarke. I shouldn't, and I tried so hard to stop, but I do and I can’t. It comes so naturally that I don't know how to turn it off. When you came back and I saw you, I knew that. And then, we just kept coming together. It isn't random, Clarke. It can't be _random_. The universe is trying to tell us something. It's not me and Costia. It's not you and this girl,” Lexa whispers, eyes flicking to Niylah mercilessly and then back to Clarke’s face. “It’s supposed to be _me and you_.”

Niylah rolls her eyes before she notices the expression on Clarke's face. “Clarke?”

Clarke glances at Niylah before turning to reply, “You said... I wasn't enough.” 

“I said _it_ wasn't enough. Having sex with you isn't enough. I want all of you, Clarke,” Lexa murmurs.

“You had sex?” Niylah asks.

Clarke nods, and swallows at the look on her face. “I was going to tell you.”

“Clarke," Lexa begins, drawing her attention back, "This isn't easy for me, but it’s all of me asking for all of you-- the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful. The past and the future. I want it all. I want you. I choose _you_.”

Clarke’s mouth opens and shuts.

“I thought maybe it might be the same for you,” Lexa breaths. She's almost as vulnerable as the day they first met, but is starting to look increasingly crestfallen.

“I felt the same,” Clarke says slowly, “Then I sprained my ankle, got into a car wreck, and bared my _fucking_ soul to you. I put my heart, everything, on the line and you just... walked away. You've done it to me three times since I've been back. After everything we've been through, you should know how that feels, Lexa. Honestly, I deserve better.”

“I was engaged,” Lexa pleads. “I had a responsibility to Costia. But I ended it. I ended it because if I can't have you, I don't want anyone. I don't want second best anymore. It was never enough.”

“I know. I even understand about Costia. But in that bathroom, we were free to do and say anything, and you let me go. Again. I may have walked away, but Lexa, you practically told me to,” Clarke whispers.

“No, no, Clarke," Lexa denies. "I want you. I want us to stop walking away from each other. I want you to stay. I want us to be together.”

“I did as well.” Clarke shakes her head sadly. “But I have a responsibility now, too.”

Not able to stomach the look on Lexa's devastated face for a moment later, Clarke shuts the door. She turns and leans against it, but doesn't see when Lexa does the same. They're both heaving. Reeling.

“I understand what you mean about complicated now,” Niylah says, looking away as if uncomfortable. “That was intense.”

“It's always been intense,” Clarke replies, trying to steady her breathing.

(Lexa had told her everything she wanted-- no, needed-- to hear.

And she had closed a door in her face.)

“Niylah,” Clarke starts without thinking.

“Are you okay, Clarke?”

“No… no. I'm not. I'm really not.”

“Letting go is hard,” Niylah acknowledges, unknowingly repeating Octavia’s words.

It triggers Clarke to remember Raven’s:

_You've got to know when to hold on and when to let go._

Maybe she's holding onto the wrong person.

Clarke stares at Niylah.

And Niylah stares back. “What, Clarke?”

“I…” Something is churning in her gut, something uncomfortably large and painful.

“You can tell me,” Niylah encourages her.

“I… that was Lexa, Niylah. And I slammed the door in her face.”

Niylah squints. “I know.”

Clarke takes a shuddering breath and slides down the door. “Why did I do that?” she asks-- mostly to herself. “She did and said all the right things.”

Niylah shrugs and crouches down until she's down on her level. “Tell me why you did it.”

“Because… you were here,” Clarke whispers.

“That's all?” Niylah asks, disappointed.

Clarke hates to let her down, but she wants to be honest, too-- so, she nods. 

“You don't owe me anything, Clarke. We've been on one date. Granted, it's also easy to show up and say all the right things.”

Clarke closes her eyes, takes deep breaths, and tries to visualize what she wants. “Is it easy to break up with your fiancée?” she asks quietly.

“Probably not,” Niylah admits, brow knitted together as she sticks her hands in her pocket. She doesn't know the history, but she can guess who Clarke means. “I don't know.”

Clarke stands, and sets the roses on the small table by the door. Her hands are sweating, and her heart is hammering a mile per minute. So many thoughts and memories and conversations are playing out in her mind. 

_But it's been five years and I still_ love you _, Clarke._

_I want you._

_I want us to stop walking away from each other._

_I want you to stay._

_I want us to be together._

Clarke knows she can't fix the past, but she sure as hell can change the future. It's an obvious choice, but one she’s terrified to make. To make it, she has to stop running. She has to stop being afraid. She has be brave-- to try. Even if it hurts. Even if it kills.

Even if it ruins her.

She has to at least _try_.

The thought isn't even fully formed before she’s saying, “You’re beautiful and you’re brilliant and there isn't a _single_ thing wrong with you. Please don’t think this has anything to do with you. That was the complication-- that was the ideal. And I can see a faint glimmer of hope and I've got to take that chance one last time. I would regret it forever if I didn’t.”

“Do you really think you'll be happy? You said yourself she's left you three times.” 

“Yeah, but I left her first. Look, there's nothing wrong with you at all,” Clarke continues. "I'm sorry, but this has to end, Niylah. Right now. I'm pretty sure I've already found my person and if I don't scream out of my balcony in the next two minutes, I could lose her forever. _Again_. And for the love of fucking God, I refuse to let that happen.”

“Are you even hearing me?”

“Honestly, no,” Clarke says slowly. “Because the moment Lexa Greenwood walked in, you didn't stand a chance. And like I said, that has nothing to do with you. I'm very sorry about it. You got the shit end of the stick, but it happens. Life happens. This isn't the ideal, Niylah. This was about surviving. And I think life should be about more than just surviving.”

“You're an asshole, Clarke,” Niylah counters.

“I know. But I thought you deserved the truth. You deserve to be someone’s enthusiastic yes,” Clarke replies-- genuine. “And I know you will be. But it isn’t ever going to be with me.” 

Niylah’s face scrunches up like she's trying not to cry. Clarke lambasts herself for dragging another person into this goddamn mess. She never should have called her. Niylah is innocent, and more than good enough-- just not for her. 

She can't hold a rose to Lexa Greenwood.

“You really love her?” Niylah probes a second later, sounding like she's still very much holding out for the opposite. She shouldn’t, but Clarke can’t blame her. 

Clarke nods. It hurts, it hurts everyone, but it needs to get out there. She has to communicate to get what she wants. And unfortunately, that isn't Niylah.

“I'm sorry, but it never would have been enough,” Clarke says. “Lexa is special. She isn't perfect, and neither am I, and we have a collective horrible timing, but she makes me feel alive. She makes me feel like love is worth it.” She throws Niylah’s jacket to her.

Niylah catches it and scoots toward the door. Her hand rests on the knob when she turns around and asks, “Should I fight for you?” 

“It would be a waste of time,” Clarke replies. “But thank you so much for being there for me. It meant so much. And I promise I'll make my mom lay off you.”

A ghost of a smile appears on Niylah’s lips. “I’m never going to hear the end of it. And for the record, I'm not walking away because I want to. I saw you on the worst day of your life, so I can see that this just might be your best. I wish it could have been because of me, but I think it was over for us before it ever even began, wasn't it?” Clarke stares at her sadly, and she nods, adding, “Bye, Clarke.”

“Bye, Niylah,” Clarke whispers as she shuts the door. It takes her precisely four seconds to mourn the atrocity, and then she's darting to the balcony as fast as her lame ankle can carry her. She picks up a high heel-- the same scuffed “hooker shoe” she had fell in.

“LEXA!” Clarke screams at the top of her lungs. She can only see one person in the parking lot-- but she recognizes the hair, the way she carries herself. “LEXA!” 

Her next door neighbor is out watering his petunias, and he’s mildly scandalized by the sheer volume of her screams. She glances at him apologetically, and aims the shoe. She sends a signal up into the universe, trying to tap into something bigger, some framework they all exist on, to send a desperate _please_ , and hurls it to the ground.

It doesn’t hit Lexa, but it bounces near her-- inside the goddamn enormous pothole. 

“LEXA!” Clarke screams. “Can you hear me? Come back inside! I choose you, too! I want to be together! I LOVE YOU!” 

But Lexa doesn't hear her.

And she doesn't see the shoe.

Clarke watches with unbelieving eyes as she drives away-- leaving _again_.

“No no no,” she repeats.

She's not letting this happen.

She’s fighting.

She's fighting for the love of her life.

 

Clarke grabs the roses and runs all the way down the stairs, aching ankle be damned-- and she’s standing in an empty parking lot when she remembers Wells has her car. And the BMW is gone.

“Fuck!” she screams.

But then a miracle happens.

The silver gleam of her Volvo glares in the sun. Wells pulls up and lowers the window. “Did you just yell fuck?” he asks, confused.

“Thank fuck,” she exclaims. “Get in the passenger seat! You drive like a grandma.”

“You never complained before,” Wells mutters, climbing over the central console awkwardly with large limbs as Clarke scrambles into the driver's seat. “What in the crap is happening now?”

“I'm going after the love of my life,” she replies, throwing the roses on the dashboard.

“Niylah? That was fast…”

“No. Lexa,” she snaps.

“Oh. Did she interrupt your date?”

“Yup.”

“And we’re happy about that?”

“Yup…”

“Niylah and Lexa met?”

“Yup.”

“Why do you keep saying yup?”

Clarke shrugs. “I'm on a mission.”

Wells nods, and turns the music up. “Let's get some tunes for this mission, then.”

Clarke shoots him a grin that comes easier than most before pulling her pair of shades out of the cup holder and plopping them on. They’re cruising towards some destination when she pulls up short on a random street. “I realized there's a problem.”

“... What?” Wells asks.

“I have no idea where Lexa lives now.”

“Well… would Raven or Octavia know?”

“Octavia,” Clarke replies instantly, knowing she’s closer than Raven at the moment. She throws the car into reverse, and adds, “Lincoln and Lexa are close. She’ll know.”

“To Octavia… then Lexa!” 

Clarke nods, and proceeds to burn rubber.

 

“Clarke?” Octavia says, surprised.

“Hey,” Clarke replies, pacing on her porch. Her mind is going so fast she can barely keep up with it. “Listen, I need to get Lexa’s address.”

“Lexa’s address?” Octavia repeats.

“Yes. She… well, she interrupted my date, but she told me a few things-- things that changed absolutely everything.”

“And you…?” 

Clarke sighs. “I couldn't just ride off into the sunset with her while I was on a date. I had to make things right with Niylah first, and I did, which is why I'm going after her now.” 

“Alright. The nanny’s here, so let's go. I'll navigate,” Octavia grins.

“You're coming?”

“Girl, I'm not missing this for anything,” Octavia replies, shutting the front door.

Clarke grins. “Hurry up!”

Once they’re all in Clarke’s volvo, Clarke adds, “I didn't know you’d approve.”

“Everyone is rooting for you two, but you had to figure it out for yourselves, you know?”

Clarke looks at her in the rearview mirror. “Everyone is rooting for us?”

“Of course, Clarke. I mean… we all know Costia and it's complicated because of what happened... but you guys were each other’s everything. The way you look at each other… I don't think you get that twice in one lifetime.” 

“That's what I thought,” Wells adds.

Clarke lets out a laugh to cover a small sob that's threatening to come out. “I really hope she’s still receptive to the idea.” 

“Only one way to find out,” Octavia replies.

“Yeah,” Clarke whispers, looking out the car window. Her hands are shaking.

“About ten more minutes. Turn right here,” Octavia instructs.

“Fuck,” Clarke says, remembering she has to think of something to say. She can't just show up at Lexa's and start crying at the intensity of it all. She has to use her words.

“What?” Wells probes.

“This whole situation,” Clarke surmises.

“Breathe deeply,” Octavia suggests.

So, Clarke does-- distracting herself with that and driving safely.

And then... they're there.

“Oh my god,” Clarke says for the fifth time.

Octavia gets out of the car, walks to the front door, opens it, and drags Clarke out. “It's now or never. Just see what she has to say.”

Then she slides into Clarke’s seat and locks the door. Clarke knows because she tries to open it. She turns around slowly, and is faced with a massive house-- it's modern, all bamboo and windows, none of which she sees Lexa in. Steeling herself, she jogs to the front door and knocks on it experimentally. It's too quiet of a knock, though, so she starts pounding on it. And no one ever answers.

Forlorn, Clarke walks back to the car when it's clear Lexa won't answer.

But then a car pulls into the driveway.

Clarke gets closer to it hesitantly, and it’s vaguely familiar, even though it isn't Lexa’s BMW. The driver's window rolls down and she, eyebrows raised, prompts, “Anya?”

“What are you doing here, Clarke?” Anya drawls.

“Well…”

Octavia flings the door of the Volvo open and shouts, “She's here to get her boo back!” 

“Oh, shit,” Clarke hears inside the car, and then Raven gets out, Sébastien strapped to her front and a bucket of KFC clutched to her side like a second child.

Temporarily sidetracked, Clarke says, “You... like KFC, Rae? I didn't know that.” 

“Only when I'm hungry,” Raven retorts quickly so she can get to the more important question of, “You're trying to get Lexa back?”

“Yeah… if she’ll take me,” Clarke replies.

“Anya, get out of the car!” Raven yells.

“Why?” Anya grumbles, complying. “It's bright and scorching hot out here…” 

“Fine,” Raven returns. “Take Sébastien then. This is as much excitement as I've had in _weeks_. I've got to see what happens.” 

“Well, she's my sister,” Anya says, raising an eyebrow. “I want to see what happens, too. I'm invested.”

“She's not here, so there's not much to watch,” Clarke states. “I have no idea where she is.”

“She's probably at work... oh wait, she took the day off. Actually, I bet I know where she is,” Anya answers. “Lexa’s eating patterns haven't changed too much. That's why she has to go to the gym every damn day “

Clarke stares at her for a long moment, but then she smiles and says, “How could I not think of that?”

“Lock the car!” Raven shouts, hurrying after Clarke. Anya does, rolling her eyes, but then jogging after them. They all pile into the shitty Volvo, and Clarke makes Octavia get into the back with Anya, Raven, and Sébastien.

“We have to go to Pancake House,” Clarke tells Wells. “It's not too far from here.”

“Five minutes. Turn left at the light,” Octavia says.

“Faster if you go straight,” Anya mutters.

“Anya’s right,” Clarke replies, zipping forward. “Why were you all here anyway?”

Anya plays with Sébastien’s toes as she says, “I had to drop off work papers. We had to take on a new hire since Lexa fired our best.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Clarke returns.

“Don't be,” Anya counters. “She was a creep.”

“God, I'm so sorry for setting you up with her, Clarke,” Raven sounds weepy as she punches Anya’s shoulder. “She didn't tell me.”

Anya whines, but puts an arm around her and smoothes a hand over Sébastien’s face.

“It's fine, Rae. You know I love you.”

“I love you, too. Though I have to ask... the last I heard, you were moving on... what changed?” Raven probes.

“She loves me,” Clarke whispers. “She said she loves me, and that she meant us having sex wasn't enough-- not that I wasn't.”

“Damn, Griffin. You two are the worst at communication,” Anya chimes in.

“Oh, I'm about to communicate with the best of them,” Clarke promises.

“She's been drinking every night,” Anya replies. “She wasn't happy after you showed up. Said nothing could compare to what you two had.”

“She said that?” Clarke whispers. “What else did she say?”

“She said… Costia threw a book at her head when she told her she kissed you.”

Clarke closes her eyes. “Costia came to see me.”

“Oh, fuck no!” Raven shouts. “Did she throw a book at you, too? I will beat that bitch’s ass.”

“No, no, you don't need to do that. She berated me very nicely. She... mostly wanted to know if I was in love with Lexa.”

“Are you?” Raven asks, and everyone seems to pause to wait for the response. 

“I… yes,” Clarke whispers too quietly for anyone to hear.

Anya hits the back of her seat. “Speak up.”

“Yes,” Clarke repeats an octave higher.

“Yeah, that doesn't surprise me," Raven replies. "She better be at the Pancake House. If not, can we still get waffles though…?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, amused. “If she's not there, I honestly have no idea where she would be.” Her amusement falters, and stops abruptly, heart stilling, as she sees the telltale neon sign. It's the Pancake House pig.

“We're here,” Octavia announces.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Clarke says.

“What?” Wells asks.

“I see her BMW,” Clarke mumbles. “Fuck. I don't know what to say to her!”

“You say… Lexa, I'm an idiot and you're an idiot, and we're clearly made for each other,” Anya replies. Raven hits her on the back of the head as Clarke pulls in a spot to park.

“Okay, but seriously, you say… Lexa, I love you and you love me and let's be together,” Raven interjects.

“That might work,” Clarke mutters.

“Go in there and say what you feel. Go be John Cusack,” Wells says.

“She doesn't even have a boombox!” Octavia exclaims. “Or a trench coat.”

“She doesn't need a boombox, they’re always playing something over the speakers,” Raven counters. “And trench coats are hideous. You look hot in that dress, Clarke. Work it.”

“You guys have to wait out here or something,” Clarke says. “You're too much.”

“There's no way in hell we’re waiting out here. I want pancakes,” Raven nearly yells. Sébastien starts crying, and she winces, shifting him around in a soothing rocking motion. “Goddamnit,” she adds in a mumble.

“At least give me a five minute leeway-- and sit at a different table, alright? We need a little space right now,” Clarke deadpans.

“Done. I'll hold her back with force, if necessary. Now, get out of the car already, Clarke,” Anya says, “Go use that magical pussy power to get my sister.”

“I'll drag your ass out again if I have to,” Octavia adds threateningly.

“God, okay, okay,” Clarke says, grabbing the roses and stumbling out of the car into the warm summer weather. The fresh air is much needed. But she kind of misses the crowded confines of the Volvo because now she has to do the impossible.

She has to get Lexa back.

If Lexa can even be gotten back at this point.

To her ears, her footsteps to the door sound like a death march. She thinks maybe she's had a moment of pure insanity.

Or maybe she's just too late.

But she thinks back to their time in the bathroom, to the way Lexa had kissed her so gently, so roughly, and she remembers.

She remembers their six years together.

She remembers their five years apart.

She remembers the very first time she saw Lexa again in the sports bar-- confused and concerned about her, still protective after all this time. And utterly breathtaking.

_I'm not the one who left._

And she remembers Lexa in front of her on her knees, telling her how she really felt.

They had both run. They had both left.

It's time to stop.

Or maybe-- it's time to finally run in the right direction.

She thinks maybe she has been subconsciously the entire time.

She exhales, and pushes the door open.

“Sweetie!” Paula says.

“Hi, Paula,” Clarke replies, giving the older woman a small smile. “How are you?”

“A little tired, but peachy. You here for your usual, sweetheart?”

Clarke nods in lieu of answering.

“She's sitting by the back in the regular seat,” Paula replies, punching a ticket into the register. “You go right on back now.”

Clarke nods again, and then doesn't take another step.

 

“Oh fuck, she's going to run…” Raven says. They're all pressed against the windows and have a fairly good view of Clarke freezing in the lobby.

“She won't. She's gathering her courage,” Octavia replies in her defense.

“She can't run this time,” Wells agrees.

“Does she know you're in love with her?” Anya counters rudely. Raven sighs.

Wells freezes as all the women in the car turn to watch his reaction. “N-no. What?”

Octavia gives him a sad smile, and he sighs.

“She doesn't feel the same way about me,” Wells admits slowly. “I know that-- and I respect it. I would never push. She sees me as a best friend… a brother.”

“I know she does. You're a good friend to her, though, and she needs that,” Octavia says gently, putting a hand on his own. “The thing about Clarke is that almost everyone falls in love with her a little bit. It's normal. Natural, even. I think it's the artist thing or her hair or something. She's sort of special that way.”

“Yeah,” Wells replies, swallowing. “I’m never going to tell her, so none of you better _ever_. I don't want her to think… I'm pathetic or something. I hold no hope at this point. Especially with everything going on with her and Lexa.”

“Nobody will say anything,” Octavia replies.

Anya smirks. “I accept cash and credit.” Raven socks her in the arm, and she adds, “Alright, alright, my mouth’s zipped.”

Raven nonchalantly waves a hand and declares, “You'll get over her in no time. I'm going to give you Carly’s number, so that’ll help.”

“The Carly I danced with?” Wells asks.

“No, Carly the ghost. Of course the Carly you danced with. Jesus,” Raven retorts.

“Awesome,” he replies, smiling.

“She's moving!” Anya calls.


	9. Act IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to update! Life just gets in the way. The good thing is I pretty much have the next (and final) chapter written. I was going to do an epilogue, but what can I say, I've already wrote the first chapter of the sequel... 
> 
> warnin': sex ahead

Clarke forces herself to be brave, to start running towards the only thing she's ever wanted entirely, and eventually, she gathers enough momentum to bring herself to Lexa.

One more step, and Clarke can see Lexa's hair-- glossy brown, curly but straightened. Another step, and Clarke can see slender fingers wrapped around a black coffee mug. A third step, and she can make out the light charcoal color of Lexa's blazer that makes her eyes pop. The stiff white undershirt is unbuttoned, Clarke knows, so she feels less closed in and can breathe easier.

And the final step? It brings Clarke close enough to see her actual face. Lexa’s older now, but no less beautiful, as she stares blankly at the seat across from her.

“Lexa?” Clarke whispers.

Lexa jumps, startled, and turns around.

“Clarke?” she counters, surprise evident in her shocked tone.

Clarke walks to the seat in front of her, but pauses before sliding into the familiar caress of seats. “Do you mind if I… can we talk?”

“Yes, of course,” Lexa replies, standing as she gestures to sit. Never taking her eyes off Clarke, she straightens her jacket.

“Thanks,” Clarke murmurs. She pulls her own jacket off, folding it neatly and placing it beside her, but she can only take so much time before she's forced to look at Lexa. She’s nervous, too.

Her heart hammers inside her chest, but it feels like she's having an actual heart attack.

“I… I'm sorry for shutting the door in your face,” Clarke starts. “I had to… make things right. For everyone.” She realizes she’s echoing their earlier words, so she clears her throat and adds, “And... well, here I am.” 

Lexa, watching her, just nods.

Paula slides up, unintentionally interrupting the momentum Clarke’s experiencing, and asks, “Usual, darling?” She sets a plate of steaming blueberry pancakes in front of Lexa.

“Yes, please,” Clarke replies, smiling. She doesn't know if Paula’s talking about her old or new usual, but she doesn't care either way.

Paula nods and whisks away.

Clarke smiles, searching awkwardly around for the words to fill her. Out of all the things in the world to say next, she chooses, “I went to your house,” for some reason.

“You went to my house?” Lexa repeats, completely ignoring the food in front of her.

Clarke nods, and says quickly, “Not in a creepy way. I wanted to talk and Octavia told me where it was. She’s-- they're actually all here with me. It's embarrassing,” she admits.

“Who’s here?”

“Octavia, Raven, Anya, and Wells. And, well, Sébastien. And the KFC… apparently, Raven has an addiction to fried chicken now?” Clarke laughs lightly. “I didn't know.”

She’s babbling. 

Lexa raises an eyebrow and turns around to quickly scan the restaurant, but they haven't even come in yet. “Okay… right.”

“I wasn't sure if you lived with Costia or not…?” Clarke probes, looking away.

This is a complete shitshow, but Clarke was worried she would run into Costia.

She still feels guilty. For winning.

For maybe winning, that is.

“We didn't. She has her own apartment.”

Clarke nods. She locks onto Lexa’s eyes, and inhales deeply, attempting another smile.

_It's now or never._

_Go in there and say what you feel._

_Go be John Cusack._

“Listen,” Clarke breathes, noticing when Lexa perks up minutely, “I’m here because… I don't want to live with regrets anymore. I'm sorry we kissed when we did. That was super shitty and inappropriate for everyone involved. But… I'm not sorry about what happened in the bathroom…” Clarke trails off, blushing, but Lexa gives her a small smile, which encourages her to continue. “The truth is that I don't want to go to bed knowing that you're out there somewhere with someone else. I don't want to go back to not knowing each other again. I don’t want to just be friends,” Clarke admits. “I don't want to settle for someone else, because all I want is you.”

Lexa, dark eyes darkened in emotion, merely nods again. She knows there's more.

“I know I have a habit of running,” Clarke adds, “but I desperately want to stop. I want to stop running, so I can _stay_. With you. That is... that is… if you still want me.”

“I still want you,” Lexa whispers, voice cracking on the last syllable. “It never stops. I know you run to protect yourself, to get distance, but please... let me come next time.”

“No,” Clarke counters quietly. “I'm staying. For once, I really, really want to. I guess… I wanted to know if you could forgive me?”

Lexa sits back, and pushes a swatch of hair from her face. “I forgave you years ago.”

“Promise? You mean… you mean so much to me. You mean everything. You have the potential to wreck me, and you always have, and when I thought you cheated on me, my heart shattered. I don't really think I ever got it back whole all this time. You scare me, Lexa.”

“You scare me, Clarke,” Lexa murmurs as if it's a secret, which maybe it is. “It's terrifying how much power you have over me. You matter more than anyone, and you left a crater when you disappeared. I tried to rebuild my life, to find love, but I realized how meaningless it all was when you came back to DC. I couldn't stay away from you. I was… I always seem to end up around you,” Lexa admits. A bittersweet smile materializes on her face, which reduces to a wince to add, “There was nothing wrong with Costia. Breaking up with her was incredibly hard, but the truth is no one can compete with you in my eyes, and she deserved better than that when you're the only one I want. It wasn't fair.”

“It wasn't,” Clarke replies. “She came to see me. I felt… I feel horrible about it.”

Lexa looks away briefly to nod. “I thought she might. What did she say?”

Clarke swallows. “She wanted to know if I loved you.”

“And what was the verdict?” Lexa whispers, trying for nonchalance but noticeably paling.

“I said no,” Clarke begins, and Lexa’s face falls minutely before she corrects it by setting her jaw. “But it was a lie,” Clarke adds.

“A lie?” Lexa repeats numbly.

Clarke nods. “Yes. I do… love you. It's probably crazy to say that, but there it is-- the unsettling, completely insane truth. It's not like I wanted to tell her that. Honestly, I didn't want to hurt her any longer than possible, but I think she knew that I wasn't telling the truth.”

“I don't think it's unsettling or completely insane,” Lexa interjects.

“You don't?”

“Well, I said it, too.”

“True,” Clarke agrees. “Do you… still?”

“My feelings aren't the ones that have changed in the last hour, Clarke,” Lexa retorts, stabbing her pancakes idly.

“My feelings haven't changed, Lexa,” Clarke huffs. “That's why this all happened. I needed to let Niylah know what was happening, which I did as soon as I closed the door-- and probably in a super rude manner, even though I was trying to be nice-- but I always wanted you,” Clarke falters, shaking her head at the memory of what she said to Niylah. “Can… can we find a way to move forward regardless of the past?” she asks eventually. It's the only question that really matters at this point.

“I want to,” Lexa admits after a long moment. “I’ve wanted to since I first saw you.”

Clarke smiles.

Lexa grabs her hand, fingers rubbing across her dry knuckles. “We just have to try. You have to stay and listen and talk, okay?”

“I think I can do that.” Clarke gives her a brilliant grin. She scoots around the curve of the seat and gingerly wraps her arms around Lexa.

They hug for a small eternity.

“This feels like a dream,” Clarke says.

“We can choose happiness, Clarke,” Lexa replies, reaching a hand out to stroke her jaw.

Clarke turns into her touch, and then their mouths are so close. They lean in, and the kiss isn't desperate or combative, but sweet, gentle, and yearning. It's _right_.

It's actually _right_.

There's no fiancée, no scorn, _nothing_ casting a shadow over their actions.

They're free.

They’re free to be happy.

And so, they are. It's easy... natural.

Paula comes back with Clarke’s food and Lexa disengages to ask, “Paula, can we please have this to go and get the check?”

Paula smiles teasingly, and takes their food back. “Sure thing, lovebirds.”

Lexa turns to Clarke to breathlessly ask, “Come home with me?”

“You don't even want to finish your pancakes?” Clarke retorts, laughing.

Lexa melts at the sound, but then growls, “Fuck the pancakes.”

Clarke swallows her laughter at the look on her face, pure _want_ , and her reply is rocky as gravel. “Yeah… let's leave.”

Lexa smiles. Paula comes back with their food, and Lexa waits to stand until she’s gone, throwing a(nother) fifty on the table. Clarke wonders just how well off she is, but doesn't care a second later when Lexa, guiding her to the door, wraps an arm around her back.

“Ma’am, you can't bring outside food in here,” Clarke overhears another server say. 

She turns slightly to see all their friends crowded into a tiny booth in the corner. Wells looks panicked and dives into the KFC, trying to eat it all-- much to Raven’s obvious disapproval. Anya, trying to smooth it over, tosses the kid a large bill and a tight smile. 

Clarke looks at Lexa, who has also watched this unfold, and they both burst out laughing.

Raven hears them, turning to survey them with a flirty pose, and calls, “Get ‘em, girl!”

“We’ll have to take your car,” Clarke murmurs, slyly giving them all a thumbs up behind her back. It would have been subtle if they hadn't all loudly started cheering.

Lexa flashes a grin-- big, wide, unrestrained-- first at Clarke and then over her shoulder before saying, “It’ll be faster.” She jogs ahead to hold the building and car door open for Clarke.

Clarke retorts, “My volvo is wicked fast for your information,” as she nods in thanks and crawls into the BMW.

“I have my doubts about that,” Lexa counters as she winks and closes the door.

 

“Your house is amazing,” Clarke remarks, looking at the neat shrubbery and amazing glass detail of the immaculate house in front of them.

“I like it,” Lexa replies, inspecting the front door before opening it. “Lots of room. I guess it makes it feel empty sometimes.”

“You’ll just have to fill it up then,” Clarke suggests, thinking there was plenty of room on the walls for artwork to be displayed.

Lexa gives her an inscrutable smile before setting her keys down. Clarke doesn't have time to do much before Lexa stalks towards her with a predatory intent, forcing her to back up until her ass hits the living room wall.

“Not so fast,” Clarke says, shrugging out of the cardigan as quickly as possible, dropping it on the floor, and sinking to her knees. “I didn't mean to leave you hanging at the party.”

Lexa inhales with wide eyes, and falters, assuring her, “You don't have to…”

“Are you kidding? I know that, but I've been waiting five years for this,” Clarke scoffs, gently working her belt buckle loose.

Lexa, eyes impossibly oval, can only nod. 

Clarke succeeds in pulling her belt off. She flicks it across her thigh teasingly, which makes Lexa’s face break out into a smirk.

“Do you remember--” Lexa starts.

“I remember everything,” Clarke interrupts, a sad wince corroding her happy mood. 

The confession doesn't make Lexa sad-- it makes her face turn tender, reverent. She pulls Clarke to her feet and kisses her passionately. “You mean everything to me,” she whispers as it fizzles out.

Clarke pulls a strand of hair out of Lexa’s face, really studying her. “You were right. Life should be about more than surviving-- and it is with you.” Lexa pulls her body closer until it melds into hers, and Clarke adds in a whisper, “But seriously... take off your pants.”

Lexa grins, letting loose a chuckle as she complies, pushing Clarke back down to her knees. “I missed your mouth.”

“Hmm,” Clarke hums, pulling her pants and underwear off in one gentle tug. “What did you miss about it?” she asks, mouth ghosting over the bare skin of her thighs. She scratches lightly down the backs of her thighs, and Lexa, groaning, leans towards her hands.

“Everything. When you smile… when you touch me with it… when you tell me in the middle of the night to stop snoring so loud…” 

“You still snore?” Clarke murmurs, lips delicately meeting flesh. 

Lexa inhales rapidly, and sinks a fist in Clarke’s hair. “I got a breath right strip.”

“Thank god,” Clarke whispers dramatically before she starts to work her oral magic.

“Fuck,” Lexa breathes after only a few moments of her ministrations. “Don't stop...”

Clarke doesn't.

By the time Lexa’s come enough times for Clarke to feel satisfied, they have somehow ended up sprawled on a large sectional couch. The leather sticks to Clarke’s sweaty skin as she inspects the grey ceiling.

“This still doesn't feel real,” she says.

“It's real, Clarke,” Lexa insists, pulling her closer-- her chest flush against Clarke’s back. She holds her. “I'm here and you're here.”

“I love you,” Clarke whispers. “It's still borderline insane to say, but you did say it first and it is true, so…”

“I love you, too,” Lexa just mumbles into her ear, nuzzling the shell of it a second later.

“Where do we go from here?” 

“Literally or figuratively?” Lexa counters.

“Both.”

“Literally, wherever you want. I figured you might be getting hungry. We left our takeout in the car… probably isn't very good, so can cook or order in for that. Figuratively… I want you to be mine. For real. We can go as slow as you want, but I want us to be... together.”

“You asking me to be your girlfriend, Greenwood?” Clarke asks-- all husk and sin.

“Would you be, Griffin?”

“Of course,” Clarke replies, turning over in her arms to press a kiss to her cheek. “I mean it's quick, but I honestly want nothing more. But... are you ready after…?”

Clarke doesn't want to say her name-- to bring Costia into their hallowed den of sex and feelings. She's afraid she’ll reappear like a ghost, scaring away everything they've rebuilt, not that she’d ever let that happen.

“It's… soon, and maybe it's not the most respectful thing, but I don't want to fight it anymore. I don't want to have to pretend.”

“Neither do I,” Clarke assures her.

“What about Finn?” Lexa counters softly.

Clarke blinks. “Finn is gone.”

“You cared for him,” Lexa surmises, hiding the illogical pain she feels from that.

“I did. I really did,” Clarke replies, sighing as she stares off into space. “But… the dead are gone and the living are hungry, Lexa.”

“If you're ready, I'm ready,” Lexa admits. “Like I said, we’ll take it slow. Steady.”

“That's how you win the race,” Clarke murmurs, interlocking their fingers and kissing each of Lexa’s. “We’ll go on dates?”

“Mhm. I'll take you to all the fancy places we could never afford in college.”

“Even if you were penniless, I'd still want you,” Clarke informs her. “You know that, right? It's not about the money. I have a decent bit saved. I can take you on dates, too.”

“I know, Clarke,” Lexa whispers.

“I know you fired Ontari.”

Lexa sighs, and sits up. “She disrespected you. She hits on everyone and has some… unorthodox business practices. She was a liability anyway. It was a practical decision.”

Clarke nods, but she sees right past Lexa’s flimsy excuse. “It’s sweet you care so much.”

“You shouldn't ever question that I care, Clarke,” Lexa retorts, looking at her with a ferocity that makes Clarke abruptly swallow. 

“I don't,” Clarke murmurs. “I won't anymore.”

“Good,” Lexa says, pulling Clarke by the back of her neck to her mouth.

They don't separate for hours.

 

Eventually, Clarke has to go home. She does have a guest staying with her-- and Wells is probably wondering what the fuck happened. 

When Lexa drops her off sometime late, it's dark and Clarke is sleepy, nearly exhausted. She leans heavily on Lexa's shoulder before she gets out of the car, and they share a kiss that drags her out of the fog, making her body spark alive with energy.

“Go get some sleep, Clarke,” Lexa commands when Clarke pulls away to yawn.

“You’ll call me?” she probes.

“I'll do more than that,” Lexa promises, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, Lex,” she replies.

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

Clarke shoots her a sleepy smile and walks to the elevator in a happy blur. 

This is everything she wanted.

This is everything she _dreamed_.

Clarke hops in the elevator, pressing her floor, and hums contentedly as she waits. When she reaches the fifth floor, her floor, the elevator bangs open and she's met with darkness. The hallway has lights, though.

Feeling alarm creep up her spine like cold water, Clarke, intent on taking a look first, cautiously sticks her head out of the elevator. 

There's something in the middle of the hallway. She squints, but can't quite make it out. Deciding she's being ridiculous, she exits the elevator. It makes a ding as it shuts. Clarke takes a step closer, and closer, and stops. It's not an oversized box or a coat rack or whatever godforsaken thing she had talked herself into the black mass being.

It's Ontari.

She’s standing perfectly still.

She’s staring right at her.

She's smiling.

“I'm catching you, Clarke,” Ontari calls out.

And she's got a gun.

“No,” Clarke breathes-- it's not an answer, but a plea, a prayer, a horrified rebuttal to a universe that would do this to her after the past twelve hours.

“I did warn you,” Ontari replies, grinning toothily. She aims the gun without really looking at anything and pulls the trigger. Something slams into Clarke’s chest, and it's painful. She’s in utter shock when she looks down to see something sticking out of her. 

She hasn't been shot with a bullet.

It's a dart. A tranquilizer dart.

Clarke collapses, managing to crawl a few feet away from Ontari before it's all blackness.

 

When Lexa gets home, all she can do is grin.

She's won.

She's got _the_ girl. The only one that matters.

The thought carries her into the first peaceful sleep she's had in weeks. When morning comes, she rolls out of bed with newfound energy and tackles the day head on. She's getting ready for a day full of tedious work when the terrifying call arrives.

“Lexa?” Anya, voice scratchy, prompts.

“Yes, Anya?” Lexa shoots back.

“Are you planning on giving Clarke up anytime soon? I know you two are probably practicing every position in the Kama Sutra or some shit, but Wells doesn't have your number and Clarke isn't picking up.”

“What?” Lexa counters. She's slipping on dress shoes, but pauses as she absorbs this information. “But I dropped her off last night.”

“Really? You don't think…” Anya seems afraid to even suggest it, which annoys her.

“What?” Lexa snaps.

“Do you think she left?”

“No, she wouldn't do that,” Lexa retorts.

“Did things go… well?”

“Yes, they went great. We’re… together. She was happy when I dropped her off.”

“Congrats,” Anya smirks before adding, “But I've got a weird feeling about this, Lexa.”

“Me too. I'll… go look at her apartment and see if I can find out where she went.”

“Okay. Let me know as soon as possible. Raven is going to kill me if I don't tell her soon, but she's also going to panic, so.”

“I understand. I'll call you when I know more,” Lexa rushes out, already half way down the stairs. She practically runs to her BMW, wrenching the door open and sliding in. She’s at Clarke's apartment in eight minutes, and it usually takes fifteen.

Lexa runs up all five flights of stairs, and when nobody answers after she knocks, she opens the unlocked door anyway.

She can hear the shower going. 

Lexa glances around, but everything looks more or less the exact same as the day before. Though the situation… it feels familiar.

 

_“Clarke?” Lexa calls._

_The door to her apartment is hanging open, but Lexa has already been delivered the news of Jake's tragic death by a grim-faced Raven. She wants to be considerate-- gentle. Clarke is reeling. And missing._

_“Babe?” she tries again. She pushes the door slightly open, and frowns at the sight._

_The living room is empty._

_Is she in the wrong apartment?_

_Lexa glances at the door. 304B._

_This is Clarke's apartment._

_There should be a busted sofa there… and some milk crates… and the makeshift beer pong table they had made together. And Clarke’s painting supplies._

_All the messy tubes of paint and splattered brushes… the dozens of canvas usually littering the floor under the window and hung up on the long hallway..._

_They’re all gone._

_Lexa finds herself moving through the kitchen, the tiny bathroom, and the bedroom._

_They’re all empty._

_The only thing she can find is a hair tie behind the bedroom door. Lexa puts it on her wrist and sits in the middle of the living room._

_“Clarke…?” she whispers._

_Clarke is gone._

_Lexa can only imagine the pain that is radiating through Clarke, the grief, but why was this her immediate reaction?_

_Clarke has… left. She has taken everything she owns, packed it, and willingly_ left _._

_How could she just... leave?_

_Leave her mother?_

_Leave Raven?_

_Leave… her?_

_Where in the hell would Clarke have gone?_

_Away is the only answer Lexa conjures._

_Lexa calls Clarke's phone over and over, but it goes to voicemail everytime._

_She curls into a ball on the floor. It can't be true. This has to be a big mistake._

_Clarke wouldn't leave._

_Clarke loves her._

_Clarke is everything-- her past, the present, their future. And she would never give up._

_Lexa takes a deep breath and sticks a hand in her pocket, fishing out the item she’s been carrying around for the last twenty four hours._

_It's a small box with a large Z on it._

_It’s a ring._

_It's_ the _ring._

_Lexa had searched for weeks for the right one-- took breaks from studying to learn everything about the cuts, the possible gems._

_Princess cut._

_White gold setting._

_Petite pavé diamond._

_Diamond encrusted band._

_Four months of wages carefully saved._

_Lexa was going to propose-- in front of everyone-- at Clarke's graduation party._

_Lexa remembers how it felt when she put the ring in her pocket at the beginning of the day. It had a solid weight, and it sparkled like a promise. She was shaking slightly, going out of her mind with nervousness, but was so glaringly optimistic. She had been so excited._

_She had been anticipating a yes._

_Maybe that was stupid._

_Maybe that was… naive._

_How could she be so stupid as to think she deserved Clarke? Clarke-- compassionate, utterly creative, always encouraging, and so much more than Lexa would ever deserve._

_They were going to be engaged._

_They were going to start a life together._

_Lexa’s face crumbles as she looks around the apartment-- it's empty, full of memories that seem to echo only in her head._

_She sucks in a rattling breath._

_And then Raven, followed by Anya, storms in._

_Lexa slips the box back into her pocket. They don't know. Nobody does but… Jake._

_He had vowed secrecy._

_He had taken it to his grave._

_And nobody but her knows the plan now._

_It makes it feel strangely unreal._

_Like maybe it was never meant to happen._

_Lexa doesn't deserve good things._

_“What… the fuck?” Raven asks. “Where is she? Where's all her stuff?”_

_Lexa swallows, tears running down her face, and numbly replies, “She's gone. She left.”_

_“No,” Raven replies-- like that's simply incorrect. “She would never just leave us.”_

_Lexa throws a hand up, both a question and indication of their empty surroundings. “Then can you tell me where she is?”_

_Anya picks up something, something Lexa’s plain missed in her haste, that's sitting right there in plain view on the peeling kitchen counter._

_“It's her keys,” Anya says._

_Lexa eyes the little paintbrush keychain. She closes her eyes as her lips bow to an unmanageable sadness. “She left. She left... me.”_

_Raven shakes her head stubbornly. She sits down on the floor and gathers the youngest Greenwood in her arms. They don't have a close relationship, but she recognizes the feeling in Lexa's face as her own. “No. She's… she’s going through some shit, Lex. She’ll come back, okay? She would never...”_

_Anya crouches down, rubbing her back. “Raven’s right. She’s insane with the grief. It makes people do unpredictable things.”_

_“She left me,” Lexa repeats, a deep sob bubbling up and erupting through her gasping mouth. “And she's hurting, she must feel… so fucking destroyed. She needs me, and I didn't even know until it was too late. God, I didn't get here in time...”_

_“Lex, you got here as fast as you could,” Anya counters gently._

_“She’s going to come back,” Raven says, her voice wavering as she fights back tears of her own. Lexa leans into her, and cries._

_(The truth is that Clarke doesn't come back._

_Not for five long years.)_

 

“Lexa?” Wells probes for the second time. He's got one hand on his hip and the other holding a towel around his middle.

Lexa’s staring vacantly out the window. She blinks, and turns to face him.

“Where's Clarke?” he prompts.

“I dropped her off last night,” Lexa replies.

“What…? But she never came home.”

Lexa nods dumbly. “That's what Anya said.”

“Did something happen between you two?”

“No. Everything was… perfect.” Lexa glances around, eyes flicking to the paintings in the corner. She recognizes Clarke in them first.

Then herself. 

Clarke’s painted _them_.

Lexa takes out the series of four and quickly lays them out on the floor. It’s intrusive, but it seems they're a depiction of their relationship.

She thinks Clarke needs to paint another now. One of them happy-- safe.

Finally.

(Maybe.)

“What are you doing?” Wells questions.

Lexa’s head swivels to him, then the paintings, and back again. She needs to _focus_. She needs to let go of the past.

Clarke’s in trouble, and Lexa doesn't believe she left willingly this time.

“Does she have a computer?” Lexa counters. “When did you try calling her phone?”

“I called a few times this morning-- probably around 7am. Her phone keeps going to voicemail, so I'm guessing it's dead. And her computer is underneath the coffee table…”

Lexa nods and goes for the computer.

Wells watches with worried eyes, and says, “She wouldn't run away… would she?”

“She didn't run away. She left all her stuff.” Lexa’s eyes widen and she sets the computer down, darting to the balcony and leaning over the edge. She sighs in relief when she sees the old Volvo below.

Wells is pulling on a shirt from his duffel bag when Lexa adds, “Her car is still there.”

“Good to know,” Wells murmurs.

“Do you know her password?” Lexa probes, dropping onto the couch to open her laptop.

“Um… no…”

Lexa tries a few different combinations-- Clarke’s birthday, her childhood fish’s name, her parking spot number, her mom’s birthday, the date of Jake’s death. None of them work, but it’s a long shot anyway. She side-eyes Wells, who is pouring himself a bowl of cereal and trying not to look as concerned as he feels, and types in the day she left.

It’s silly-- but the thing is, it works.

It actually freaking works.

Lexa barely has time to process this before she’s in her email, scanning her sent folder for anything recent or anything that might tell her that she had left willingly. 

She finds nothing.

Sighing, she sets the laptop down. She remembers how Anya found her keys.

She needs to pay attention.

“I'll be right back,” she calls to Wells as she walks out the door. Her eyes nearly penetrate the hallway floors as she searches. She’s frustrated, and it's suspiciously clean, though that may be her paranoia talking, when she sees something.

It's a little red puff, a talley of sorts.

It's inconspicuous by it itself, part of who knows what, but Lexa does know what.

It's the end of a tranquilizer dart.

Clarke didn't leave.

Because she was taken.

Five minutes later, Lexa is speeding towards her office and barking orders to Wells in the passenger seat-- call Abby, call Anya, call Lincoln. She needs all the muscle and brains she can get right now. She needs a motive.

(She thinks she has one.)

 

Anya and Raven are there in record time, and Lincoln and Octavia aren't much further away. Abby, in scrubs and looking in need of coffee, gets there in thirty minutes.

“Why haven't you called the police?!” Abby yells almost immediately.

Lexa's about to answer when Anya beats her to it, saying, “Because we know who took her.” Abby processes this while Anya adds, “Ontari is dangerous. We don't want to escalate the situation. This is what we do. We have our people working on the location, and as soon as we have it, we’ll retrieve Clarke.”

“Who is this girl?” Abby questions. 

“We actually don't know,” Lexa admits, pursing her lips in irritation.

“What do you mean?” Abby starts, incredulous. “She worked for you--”

“She used a fake identity,” Anya interrupts, seeing the way Lexa’s mouth tightens in barely repressed grief. “We should have caught it. It was a major oversight on my part as hiring manager. Anyway, she’s good, but we’re better. We have several people working on finding her and I'm confident that they will soon.”

"If you can't find her in twelve hours, we're going to the police," Abby threatens.

"Yes, of course," Lexa murmurs, resigned, with a sigh. "We all want to find her."

“Christ,” Raven calls out, sinking into a plush chair against the wall. “This is all my fault. I never should have set them up together. Fuck me.”

“It's not your fault,” Lexa says. “Though I’d have... appreciated you not doing that.”

“You had a fiancée,” Anya retorts with an edge of warning before walking to Raven, who scowls, to put an arm around her. Lexa sighs, nodding.

One of Lexa’s agents, Gustus, comes in holding a sniper rifle and a machine gun. “Which kind did you want?” he questions.

“I thought you ran a security consulting business,” Abby deadpans, swiping a hand over her face. “What kind of security is this?”

“Very... secure... security, ma’am,” Gustus replies, flashing her a shit-eating grin.

Lexa takes both guns, aiming at the floor, and glares at him before motioning for him to leave. “What he said,” she says vaguely.

Abby walks up to Lexa and grabs her by the front of her shirt. Despite the fact that Lexa has a gun in both hands, her eyes widen. “My most precocious resident will hardly look at me after mumbling something about you showing up to the date I had so lovingly pushed her to ask Clarke to. I thought you two were over?”

“Oh, not if yesterday was any indicator,” Raven mumbles, looking apologetic but still sore about Lexa’s earlier comment.

Lexa shoots her a deadly look, but Abby’s all over it, countering directly to the girl in her clutches, “What happened yesterday?” 

Everyone in the room watches to hear.

Lexa’s a little taller so she stares over Abby, all but refusing to answer before the ice cold glare and forceful jerk Abby gives her straightens her out enough to admit, “I… I'm in love with Clarke.”

Abby rolls her eyes and releases her. “You act like you're eternally sixteen. Grow up.”

“Respectfully, I did... and I know it's been complicated, but…” Lexa takes a deep breath, “Abby, I still love her and… Clarke loves me.”

“It's true, Mama G,” Raven says, putting an arm on Abby's shoulder. “They spent yesterday bang… uh… hammering it out-- like their feelings. They’ve both got a lot of feelings…”

Abby scrunches up her face in disapproval, but a moment later, shoots an annoyed glance in Lexa's direction and sits down on her chair. “I know.”

“You know?” Raven repeats.

“Yes, I know. Clarke's made her feelings about Lexa very obvious to me.”

Lexa smirks at that. “You’ll accept it… us?” she probes.

“Maybe,” Abby hedges, eyes calculated. “First, you better find my goddamn daughter if you know what's good for you.”

“I will, Abby. I will,” Lexa replies, sighing as reality sinks back in. Clarke's gone.

“Who all needs guns?” Gustus asks, sticking his head into the room.

Anya and Lincoln, who runs a gym but knows how to mess a motherfucker up, raise their hands. Wells and Abby, opposed to violence, look on as Raven and Octavia quickly share a glance with each other, nodding before they thrust their hands into the air as well.

Lexa narrows her eyes in disbelief and says, “You two can't come.”

“Why the hell not?” Raven retorts.

“You have no formal training,” Lexa snaps, gritting her teeth-- but it's not them.

It's Clarke.

_Ontari has Clarke._

Nothing will be right again until this is solved.

Gustus pops back into the room and Raven rips a sniper rifle from his hands. She looks at the exit sign once, and to the shock of everyone in the room, hits it perfectly in the middle. “What? It's physics. I'm going.”

“Babe, Lexa's right,” Anya admonishes, looking impressed-- then _terrified_. “What about Sébastien? You can't.”

“This is _Clarke_ ,” Raven counters. “Did you forget in all your hypocrisy that you're also Sébastien’s mother? I'll wear bullet proof clothes, but I'm going with you. The end.”

“I'm going, too,” Octavia echoes. “I don't need a gun, I know karate. I can kick that crazy bitch’s teeth out of her ass. If she thinks she can just steal my best friend, I feel bad for her.”

Lexa sighs. “Neither of you are going.”

Lincoln gets close enough to murmur, “Let them go. They can sit in the van.”

She's too anxious to have an actual fight, so Lexa just drawls, “Fine. Everybody's going.”

“I'm too old to go,” Abby says, pursing her lips as she looks around. “I’ll… stay here, drink more coffee, and think of all the ways to make it look like I accidentally killed you.”

“Oh… alright,” Lexa replies. She exchanges a look with Anya, which is amusement on Anya’s part and fear on her end, and adds, “I'll have the secretary bring you some coffee.”

Abby grunts in response.

This is almost a warm exchange. Lexa might not be sixteen, but some things never change.

“I want to go,” Wells adds in shyly. “I'm not big on guns or fighting, but I am a doctor. I can help if there are... any injuries.”

Lexa looks at him, really examining his intentions. His feelings for Clarke are no secret to Lexa, or probably anyone else, but they are hidden from Clarke. He seems to be a genuine friend it seems.

“Of course,” Lexa replies.

A small mousy-haired girl named Megan carries a phone and laptop into the room. “Boss, we've got something,” she says.

“You've got a location?” Lexa replies so quickly she runs out of air and has to inhale extra hard.

“No, but I've got Clarke on the line,” Megan replies, offering her the black cordless phone.

Lexa's eyes bulge as her hand reaches out into a great abyss to take it.


	10. Act X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! I'm sorry this chapter took so long to produce, lol, but alas, here it is. Thanks for sticking around for this thing, and I hope it doesn't let you down.

The first thing that Clarke thinks is that it's freezing. And then, she notices her hands. They throb to the tune of her heart. She tries to stretch but is held fast, unable to. There's something in the back of her mind, a feeling of alarm, but she can't quite place why that is. 

Everything has _finally_ lined up.

Everything is how it should be. She has _Lexa._

Clarke smiles, melts a tad, at the memories of their day spent together. Sluggishly, she pries open her eyes, but something in her chest violently plummets when she notices the cold brick of the building. Her apartment is drywall, not brick, and her paint colors are blue, not red. She turns her head all around to scan the space but there is nothing excluding a rickety table and assorted discolored chairs. But then Clarke notices the shadow in the farthest chair. She stares as the shape slowly becomes recognizable-- it's the shape of a person-- as she begins to remember. 

The hallway.

Ontari.

 _The gun._

Clarke looks down quickly, realizing the dart isn't in her anymore, but that her hands are tied to the wall behind her. The thin needle is absent, but from how slowly her mind struggles to process, it's already done the job.

“Why am I here?” she rasps. 

Ontari is fiddling with something in her hands; Clarke sees a glint of metal, a long knife, and some small piece of wood. She's _whittling_. It looks like some sort of animal, Clarke thinks absently. Ontari doesn't look at her, or actually answer, when she remarks brightly, “You're finally awake.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Clarke probes. She starts to shake.

“Thirteen hours. Guess it was a super strong sedative, huh?” Ontari smiles-- but Ontari doesn't know how to smile. It's hollow.

Terrifying.

“Why?” Clarke repeats in a whisper.

“You know why. You took everything from me.”

“What? Your job?"

Ontari shakes her head in the negative.

"You're going to have to elaborate,” Clarke all but demands.

"I'm Costia's sister,” Ontari snaps, heaving all of a sudden like she's restraining some great rage that everybody's missed. Her tone is what makes Clarke realizes she’s here to die. She stays silent to wait for a speech she feels coming.

“Lexa doesn't know that,” Ontari continues. “Well, she didn't. She could now, but no one did. We’re only step sisters, but Cosy and I are close. She even managed to get me hired at Lexa's firm. But then you had to stroll along out of nowhere and take everything away from us. You see, Clarke, you took away what we _both_ worked so hard to secure," she states coldly. "Did you know I've been watching you?” she adds, smiling sinisterly.

Clarke inhales raggedly and Ontari smirks. 

“You never knew, did you?” Ontari taunts. “Well, there is a reason Lexa hired me. I'm good at what I do-- the stalking, the watching, the killing, if necessary. I watched you and your ridiculous little dalliance with Lexa, and now, I'm taking what you _and_ her both conveniently want the most: each other's love, which is sickening by the way. You’ll die without her protection and she’ll never be happy without you. Poetic, mm?”

It very well may be, but Clarke is still hung up on the first part. “Costia...?" she repeats.

"Oh, she's not here. Little sister got cold feet and she's long gone by now. I told her I was going to kill you on our date, but I never got the chance. Lexa, again. You know who told Costia about Lexa and you first? Me."

Clarke frowns, tense, tight-lipped, as her head snaps up.

"Oh, you don't like that, do you?" Ontari mocks. "After I told her, Cosy got scared. She said you were too important to Lexa, that Lexa would never let your death rest, and she begged me to stop-- but I told her the truth. I was going to kill you anyway, so Cosy ran away and gave Lexa to you. _You_ made my sister run, broke her heart, and took my job. I admit that I didn't like you abandoning me on our date, but don't worry, I'm here now." 

Ontari drops the carving and stalks towards her. She reaches into her pocket as Clarke watches with weary eyes, and despite every impulse to turn away, she can't unsee what's happening right now. She feels a dull pang of relief when Ontari only pulls out a phone.

“I want this to hurt, you know?” Ontari declares, bouncing gleefully as she types in a number. “Time to say goodbye to Lexypoo.”

Ontari puts the phone to her ear. 

Tears fill Clarke’s eyes, stinging, making it hard to focus. She blinks, and they fall. The phone is ringing, but the rings sound distorted as Clarke fights to control her rampant emotions. 

“Greenwood Consulting, can I help you?” someone answers after a few more rings.

It's not Lexa or Anya or anyone familiar.

It's not who she needs.

“I need Lexa,” Clarke whispers, trying not to let all of her grief overwhelm her before she can even get the words out. “It's Clarke.”

“One moment, please,” the voice replies, not betraying any sense of urgency or notoriety.

It's only a short eternity, maybe twenty seconds, until Lexa’s voice fills the line. 

“Clarke?” Lexa probes.

Her voice fills Clarke's chest with hope that's probably foolish right now. It’s Lexa, but it's not _really_ Lexa-- just a trick, an echo of electricity over a thin, fragile line. It won't save her and as much as she hates it, Ontari’s right. It's likely time to say goodbye.

“Lexa,” Clarke sighs, “I didn't run away.” She wants to let her know that first.

“Clarke,” Lexa repeats. “I know you didn't. Where are you? Where did Ontari take you?” 

She doesn't usually panic, Clarke knows, but she’s speaking abnormally fast. She looks around, but having been passed out cold for the past thirteen hours, she has no remote idea of where she is. Is she in the city? The state? The country? Ontari puts something to her head and slowly gestures for her not to think too hard about her present location. Clarke glances up to see the glint of metal. She nods in resigned understanding.

“I can't say,” Clarke finally replies.

“She's listening of course,” Lexa deduces.

“Yeah. I guess I called... to say goodbye. Tell my mom and everyone I love them and… I'll miss them. I'll miss all of you so fucking much,” Clarke closes her eyes, steeling her voice, which is wavering like a flag in the wind, to admit, “You were always more than I deserved, and all the sadness over the last--”

“Clarke, _stop_ ,” Lexa pleads. She turns away from the crowd hovering around her and turns instead to the window, watching the people walking down the busy DC street. It calms her enough to ensure her next comment is issued in a low, promising murmur. “Don't say that. She would never-- I-- I will find you and bring you home. We're going to be happy.”

And Clarke thinks: not this time, Lexa. She thinks about how close they always are to being more. She thinks about how bad this hurts because of it. They were so close to being happy that she could feel it. They were practically there.

“Let me finish,” Clarke admonishes after a shaky inhale. “I don't think you’ll get here in time, Lexa, and that's not anyone's fault, but let me say this. This whole thing has made me think about how everything is so... _easily broken_. We shouldn't have even had another chance, right? Everything was so complicated when I got back. But we did find a way, and it hurt some people, but what a miraculous thing it is to have had another chance with you. Frankly, the bullshit was worth it for that night with you, Lexa. Whatever happens next, I won't forget that.”

Ontari taps on her watch, and Clarke, tears dripping a salty path down her cheeks and onto her lap, leans back to stare at the ceiling.

“Clarke, I love you, please--”

“I love you, too, Lexa. Don't doubt it or forget it or convince yourself it's not true, because it always has been and will be,” Clarke replies gravely.

Ontari disconnects the call.

 

Lexa puts the phone down.

The phone had been on speaker setting, projecting Clarke’s hopeless voice into every corner of the room, but she had still clutched the phone to her ear like she could save Clarke, like it would matter. And now, everyone is deathly silent.

Lexa collapses onto the floor into a heap.

 

The past comes first.

It plays like a gritty little VCR tape that's been corrupted by overuse, but Lexa already knows the story.

Their initial love story plays something out of a parallel universe. They are young and broken and above all-- happy. 

And then it goes to shit; Clarke leaves.

For several years, Lexa is just… there. She lives to carry out the motions. She does what she must. But then Costia comes and Lexa dares to open her heart a millimeter. They date, and theoretically, it checks all her boxes. Costia’s beautiful. She's intelligent, understanding, driven, and devoted. Besides not being Clarke Griffin, there's nothing wrong with her, and regardless, they are content enough together for a brief time.

But Lexa sees Clarke for the first time in five years in a shitty bar, chases after her, watches her pink tips bounce as she rips her backwards into a past that never really ended. There's the struggle to be a good fiancée-- to maintain strict distance, neutrality. She fails.

She runs into her in the dark, hears the thing she has craved, and somehow, finds herself unable to stop orbiting. They linger in the car.

They always linger.

Then there's the awful coincidence that forces Costia and Clarke into the same place. Lexa laughs at the absurdity of life, the cruelty of it, how Clarke rolls her eyes at Costia. Overall, she gravitates towards the wrong person. She always does.

There's the car trip, the elevator ride, the dark hospital room, and the birth of her nephew.

She watches Clarke hold the baby, and the sight melts her, wrecks her. She imagines a different reality and is barely able to get away.

Lexa tries to get her jacket, and it's innocent, but Clarke’s always on a _date_. She hears Clarke scream and it's a terrible sound that propels her backward. There’s the sight of Clarke’s swollen ankle, her face full of pain as Lexa hoists her into her arms.

_“You.”_

The car wreck.

The kiss. The _kiss._

Lexa leaves when Clarke is small and injured and pouring her heart out. It's everything she's ever wanted to hear, but she can't listen, she _shouldn't_ listen yet, because... she's trying, she's trying, she's trying.

But she's not sure what she's trying to do anymore. She's not sure what she's fighting.

She breaks up with Costia.

Costia yells, she screams really, and she is so, so hurt. Things are thrown, but they’re not the ones broken. The people are broken.

Lexa is _sorry_. She doesn't regret it, but she is sorry. She never meant to be so in aching, tender love with Clarke Griffin.

Costia leaves, but Lexa left Clarke.

For once in her life, Lexa struggles to be productive. She sits around and drinks old whiskey and eats chocolate and watches horrible soaps that are actually entertaining. She sobers up for Darwin’s party, but she can't seem to ever get away from the walking wound that is Clarke Griffin. She flips burgers, and laughs automatically at Lincoln’s jokes, and stares at her across a lawn full of parents. Clarke laughs, and dances with Wells and Octavia and Bellamy, and Lexa watches as she regrets everything. She regrets letting Clarke go. She regrets being a coward. She regrets _not fighting_.

She convinces herself she isn't enough, that she doesn't deserve Clarke, that Clarke will be happier with someone else. But after awhile, the excuses all sound the same, flimsy and fearful, and Lexa struggles to accept them. Because if there's anything that she's convinced of, it's that love, real love, is rare. It's illusive. Most people never find it. And that's why she can't let her real love slip away.

Lexa gets up and asks Clarke to dance. She accepts, and they twirl around, and it becomes increasingly uncomfortable.

Clarke leaves.

Lexa finds her in a bathroom, and they're so close, and there's not enough distance because they're being pulled forward.

She fucks Clarke. It isn't loving, it isn't gentle, but she can't get enough. Lexa tries to memorize how she smiles, the fleck of grey in her eyes, how her lips purse when her body tenses, trembles, around her as she comes. Lexa thinks it may be the last time, because what they're doing doesn't feel right, though nothing with Clarke is ever particularly _wrong_. They separate because of a misunderstanding, a small unfortunate wording Lexa could have fixed with more precise speech, but it's that she doesn't want to trap or pin down someone who can't stay, who never really wanted to.

But then again, Lexa reasons, Clarke isn't a butterfly. She's a woman-- not an idea or an illusion or a coward like her. Lexa realizes how stupid her thinking is, that she is in fact an actual idiot, and so, past and ex-fiancée be damned, she makes a plan. 

Except Clarke’s always ruining her plans by going on dates with other people. Lexa gets down on a knee anyway. It's now or never.

Clarke closes the door in her face.

It _hurts_. It hurts so fucking bad to be rejected by Clarke, but it's oddly freeing. Lexa had given everything and it still isn't enough. Maybe it never had been meant to be. When she surrenders to that idea, Clarke finds her and tells her things that mend everything. They kiss, and it's like it used to be or maybe what it can be. They can't pry their bodies away from each other for an entire day, but then Lexa drops Clarke, tired and happy, off at the door.

And then, there's the here, the now. 

The phone call. The panic, the worry, the paintings, the dart, the kidnapping, and Lexa's here-- losing it it front of everyone important to them. The truth is that she doesn't have anything to contribute, she doesn't have any answers, because all she can feel is abject terror.

She can see Clarke in the dark now.

Ontari hovers over her.

“I love you. Please don't forget about me,” Clarke mouths glumly to her.

Ontari cocks the gun and puts it to Clarke’s blonde head, and pulls the trigger. Lexa watches the light drain out of her tired eyes.

 

“Lexa!” Anya yells, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a firm slap. Lexa’s head turns from the impact, but she finds that she can't really feel the sting. She's hollow, numb, at first, but then slowly, she realizes she's not. Lexa's just so fucking frightened and angry that it scares her, that it swarms through her, making her gasp and shake. She is anything but unfeeling at the moment.

“We're going to find her,” Anya repeats.

Lexa, feeling like her lungs are filling with destruction, coughs, barely breathing. She inhales deeply, pushing past head and heartache, and comes back to the awful place of uncertainty. Raven is stroking Abby’s back, who is staring off in the distance while also wearily watching Lexa. Octavia’s head is tucked into Lincoln’s shoulder as they hug fiercely. Wells, motionless, stands behind them with a grim face.

“Lexa? Talk to me,” Anya pleads.

“I don't know what to say,” Lexa croaks.

“You really do care about her,” Abby comments.

“Of course I do,” Lexa spits, closing her eyes. “I've _told_ you that. And everybody keeps telling me what a bad job I'm doing at hiding it.” She imagines herself as a tree rooted to the ground, large and regal and _stable_. She needs desperately to be the tree-- to be above it. 

To be above all the sadness and all the miserable agony of a love _nearly_ kept.

“Stop hiding it,” Abby suggests.

“I never was trying to,” Lexa retorts. _Tree_ , she thinks, wishes, prays.

“Look, Lexa,” Abby says, sighing softly, as she stands to stare out a window. “I know you care about Clarke. I know that, and I understand, but you are... why she's gone.”

“That's not fair at all, Abby,” Raven murmurs, eyes darting between the two.

Lexa closes her eyes. She's about to sound sixteen years old again and she knows it, but the words pour out anyway. “And that's why you don't like me?” she questions quietly.

“I don't dislike you,” Abby replies. “Despite everything, I have never actually disliked you. You're ambitious, talented, and loyal. You helped me find Clarke when I couldn't. I don't forget that. But I love my daughter, too, and I'm scared for her.”

“I'm scared, too,” Lexa whispers to the window. She can see the reflection of everyone behind her-- they're all looking at her.

“When you first met in high school, I was scared that you were a bad influence on her. You were wild," Abby says, grimacing. "And then when she left after Jake, I had this feeling that it wasn't entirely the accident that did it. When she got back, she told me you cheated on her. She told me, in fact, that she left... because of _you_.”

“But I didn't cheat on her. And Clarke leaving wasn't anything I could control,” Lexa replies, trying to stay calm. “She's her own person.”

Abby turns away from the window to look at Lexa directly. “But you're why she left. You're what keeps hurting her.” 

"That's enough," Anya growls.

“It's fine, Anya. But Clarke didn't leave willingly this time,” Lexa asserts, frustrated. She fiddles with someone on the window sill, a snow globe of D.C., and sighs. “I'm sorry that Ontari was my employee, but I had nothing to do with their date. I know this all scares you, but you can't blame me for it.”

“What do you mean Lexa helped you find Clarke?” Raven cuts in indignantly to ask.

Abby sighs. “We knew. About a year after she left, Lexa tracked down where she was.”

Octavia makes a noise of disbelief.

“And you didn't think to bring her home or tell me her address so I could?” Raven bellows.

“I was respecting Clarke's obvious wish for privacy,” Abby bites out. “She needed--”

“Hey!” Anya interrupts angrily. “Yeah, sorry for ruining this shitshow, but we’ve got a location on ClarkinLarkin and Evil O.”

Lexa cracks her fingers.

Maybe it's time to use this anger.

Maybe it's time to channel it.

 

“I never meant for you to lose your job,” Clarke murmurs. “I could get it back for you.”

She’s trying to soothe Ontari, calm her down, but Ontari knows it and it's amusing her.

Ontari throws her a grin. “Lexa will kill me if we ever see each other again.”

“Lexa doesn't kill.”

“I would double check on that one,” Ontari retorts, raising her eyebrows. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You don't even know what Lexa does at work,” Ontari deadpans. “You're an ignorant little blonde and you're going to die for it.”

“I'm not an ignorant little blonde,” Clarke grits out, arms tensing against her restraints.

“She would kill for you,” Ontari says. “That's why I have to disappear. I took the thing that would hurt most and she will never stop coming at me for it. She's too ruthless.”

Clarke cocks her head at Ontari in wonder. In her world, Lexa and ruthless are not even loosely associated, but Ontari’s somewhat convincing. “I'm not a thing,” she mutters dejectedly after a few seconds.

Ontari rolls her eyes. “Fine. The _person_.”

“I love her. I love them all,” Clarke tries. “Can you not… please? Please just _not_ …?”

“Sorry, princess. Shit end of the stick.”

Clarke coughs-- chokes on that rebuttal, the same one she had used on Niylah. She's a giant fool, but at least Lexa knows she didn't leave her again. It’ll probably be too late for her, but it's a comforting thought that she’ll at least go out not as a coward or as a person running from anything.

“Are you doing this because I rejected you?” Clarke asks softly.

“No, I'm doing this to hurt Lexa-- not you. You're cute." Ontari shrugs. "If you wanted to run away with me and be my sex slave... and skip all this killing business... I wouldn't fight too hard.”

Clarke pauses to consider that.

“My last boyfriend, Murphy, I made him wear a collar around the house. It had a bell. He said he hated it, but I think he grew to love it.”

“I'd honestly rather just die quickly,” Clarke, looking away, admits after a beat.

“Fine. Have it your way,” Ontari says, irritation leaking through her stern tone.

“How’d you know where I was?” Clarke counters, trying to distract her for as long as possible. Ontari is right-- the thing about Lexa Greenwood is that she would never stop coming for her if she knew that she had been taken. If Clarke can stall for long enough...

“I've been watching you,” Ontari throws over her shoulder, going to mess with a phone.

“Jesus,” Clarke gripes, feeling the intense urge to scrub away at her skin to wash away all the intentional sleeze of that confession. “Can you stop saying that? It's unsettling.”

Ontari smirks and shrugs. 

“You shouldn't treat women-- or fucking anyone-- like this and expect them to like you,” Clarke says, mostly in a desperate attempt to keep her talking. More time spent talking is directly proportional to more time not dying. That's her mantra.

_\--Talk, talk, talk, keep her talking--_

“I never expected you to love me or anything, Clarke. You're not important, anyway.”

“I am important. Obviously you haven't been told this very much, but you are too.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ontari says listlessly. “If this is the part where you try to therapize me and find out why I'm like this, I'll save you the time.” Ontari crouches down onto her knees, lips on Clarke’s temple, to menacingly breathe, “I'm like this because I was raised to be like this. Cosy and I both were, but she turned out to be a pansy. But I _enjoy_ it so much-- and you've certainly wronged me and mine enough to qualify.”

Clarke tries to inch away, but her restraints don't give her much wiggle room and she is held firm. Her shaking intensifies when Ontari reaches behind a filing cabinet to grab a dagger and a sword in each hand. She gives her a fully insane smile and holds them both. 

“I propose we just keep this simple,” Ontari says. “Medieval, even. Dagger or sword? I’ll let you choose, but be quick. We don't have much time. I wanted her to find your body, so I didn't scramble the connection when you called. Lexa is racing here as we speak.”

That gives Clarke a small burst of hope.

“Thanks,” Clarke replies, attempting to be brave and stumbling all over the word. “That's nice of you. The… dagger-- I-- yeah-- I guess.”

“You sure you don't want to be my sex slave?” Ontari counters, looking her over. “John left behind his collar when he went away. I could have it re-engraved…”

That offer is starting to look more enticing by the second. Except not really, Clarke thinks.

“Um… _where_... did he go?” 

“Hell, probably,” Ontari muses with a shrug. “He always was a judgmental dick.”

Clarke closes her eyes and shakes her head very slowly. “Still for dying quickly,” she chirps.

“Alright.” Ontari throws the sword to the side of the room. It makes a huge thrashing clank, which cause Clarke’s eyes to rip open. 

Ontari puts the dagger underneath her throat, and Clarke yells, “Wait! Stop!”

“Oh-- I like when you scream.”

“Nope,” Clarke just says. “No. Let me speak.”

Ontari sighs. “What?” 

“Untie me first-- please. I don't want to die tied to this stupid wall like an animal.”

Ontari rolls her eyes. “That's got to be the oldest one in the book, princess.”

“I'm serious,” Clarke replies desperately. “I know I'm going to die. Lexa’s coming, but she won't ever get here in time to save me,” she murmurs, pausing for a second to acknowledge her statement is more true than she wants it to be. “You killing me like this-- it’s no way for me to go.”

Ontari turns thoughtful eyes to her face and stares at her for what feels like a full minute. It's probably the most uncomfortable experience of Clarke's life, but she doesn't look away and that pays off, because Ontari nods just once and begins to work on untying Clarke’s thick bonds from the red brick wall. Clarke, deep in thought, stares forward. She’s running out of time, she doesn't have a weapon, and she’s _definitely_ not ready to die today.

So, if Lexa can't save her, Clarke can damn well try to save herself. She isn't much versed in the old art of ass kickery-- she would call, well, practically any one of her friends to do that-- _but_ she does vaguely remember a few moves from the summer she did Brazilian Jiu Jitsu with Lexa.

The tension in the ropes go flat and a split second later, Clarke realizes she’s free. 

There's no time like the present.

Clarke jerks forward and Ontari’s already swinging the dagger around, having sensed her energy coiling to strike, but Clarke somehow gets away with just a (painful) cut on her forearm as she rounds the table. It's all that separates them.

Ontari sighs. “Really, Clarke? I thought you were being honest. I could practically smell your hopelessness. Besides, I can throw this dagger straight into your jugular.”

Clarke crouches a bit, but to her dismay, glaringly large pieces of her-- like her heart, lungs, and brain-- are visible and therefore vulnerable. Her injured leg is also both aching and weighing her down. She's basically completely fucked, and she knows that.

“That's too easy, though,” Ontari mutters, moving to chase her. “I like a little fight.”

Clarke dashes towards an opening-- but Ontari is on her in record time, a firm elbow wrapped tightly around her windpipe.

“Fucking ow,” Clarke rasps.

“Any last words, princess?” Ontari asks.

“You… need… therapy,” Clarke breathes. She's fighting, but it feels like her head is a grape Ontari is about to pop. Tears slide down her eyes and it's hard to breathe. She's almost getting... cold.

Then Ontari chuckles.

Clarke hears her mirth, is extremely pissed off by it, and kicks Ontari’s shin as hard as she can. By some miracle, it's enough effort that Ontari’s leg crumples. They fall and her hands are still choking Clarke out pretty effectively, but since they’re on the ground, Clarke can now use the closed guard move, a classical Brazilian Jiu Jitsu defense attack, by wrapping her legs around Ontari and thusly holding her away. 

_”Like this, Clarke,” Lexa says, strong legs wrapped around Clarke’s torso. “It's the easiest defense move in this position.”_

_“Oh, I like this,” Clarke murmurs._

That memory if anything propels her success; she sees the phone next to her and waits until Ontari gets closer before grabbing it and smashing it into her face. Blood spurts out of her eyebrow and her hold on Clarke’s throat lessens. When Clarke’s powerful thighs again rip her away from her face, Ontari’s hands disengage from her body completely. Clarke spots her vulnerability, and it's her only chance, so she takes advantage of it. She bashes her continuously as hard as she can with the phone and the thing is... it should make her feel bad. But when it's her or Ontari, the choice, the action, is actually very easy to make, to do.

In a brutal move, Clarke chooses life. She _fights_ for life. 

She loses track of how many times she hits Ontari, but by the time she's done, there is blood splattered all over her and the floor when she stops. Ontari isn't breathing, isn't moving, and what Clarke has done, how it looks, frightens her badly. She jolts up and away from her. She drops the smashed up phone in her red fingers, and it clatters to the floor. Slowly, she goes to grab the other pristine phone that's sitting precariously near the door. 

She leaves the room.

 

“You're not going,” Anya deadpans.

They’re-- in an armored semi with a shit ton of guns and explosives-- waiting for the first extraction team (and Lexa) to report back. 

“I am,” Raven retorts, standing. “We already covered this.” She impulsively grabs a grenade from the green basket staple gunned into the wall (and is already sporting a large sniper’s rifle strapped over her chest).

“Put the grenade back,” Lincoln reasons, eyes trained on the explosive device. “There would be no reason to use that here anyway. You don't want to blow Clarke up, do you?”

“I guess not…” Raven sighs, frowning in disappointment. “You're right.” She tosses it back to the container and everyone flinches. 

Raven laughs.

Anya groans in frustration. “It's not funny!”

“It is a little. Can we go now for real, though?” Raven says. “Lexa got to go find Clarke.”

“Lincoln and I could have gone too if we weren't so busy babysitting you two,” Anya mutters bitterly, dropping her gun to the floor to pick at her nail. “I have to make sure you don't blow yourselves up or shoot each other... christ, what has my life come to? Why am I babysitting adults?”

“Hey, I don't need babysitting,” Octavia counters. “I can kill a man with my thighs.”

“Amen, sister,” Raven adds. She cocks her gun, but then accidentally shoots through the ceiling of the semi. She winces.

"Oh my god," Wells breathes, jerking. The gaping hole is right above his head.

“Jesus Christ,” Anya hisses as she jumps to her feet. "Give it up! Now!" 

“Let me just…” Octavia trails off as she takes the gun away from Raven. Lincoln pointedly takes it from her and hides it behind him.

Raven shrugs. “Probably a fluke. They do that, you know. Unreliable.”

Anya's about to start cussing, but then there's static on her radio and Lexa’s voice bursts out, hot and frantic.

 

Clarke wanders out of the building and blinks at the sun. She can tell from the position of the sun that it's around noon and she definitely recognizes that she is somewhere in the warehouse district in good old Washington, D.C.. She is covered in blood and probably in need of some more therapy herself, but she's _alive_. She stares right into the sun and when her eyes inevitably burn, she closes them and feels the light on her face. 

Ontari is dead, but she’s alive. And for once she recognizes what a truly unlikely thing that is to be.

Clarke sinks onto some steps and unlocks the phone, but this is 2016 and she doesn't actually know anyone's number. She sighs and quickly decides to dial 911 instead. She’s deadly calm now, which is probably due to the shock of it all. When the operator picks up, they only grudgingly seems to believe the elaborate tale. Clarke can't identify the street and doesn't stay on the line. It's five minutes before anyone comes, and when they do, it's not the police, but a row of soldiers… or _something_. There's no identification on their camouflage uniforms, but they're decked out with huge guns and look like a legitimate SWAT team. The one on the very end throws off her helmet and runs to her.

_Lexa._

Clarke blooms into a smile.

“Clarke,” Lexa mouths, lost for words.

The people she’s with hurry past Clarke as Lexa, frowning frantically, bends down to her.

“Are you bleeding?” she starts, looking at all the blood and not finding a source. “Where--”

“I'm fine, I'm fine.” Clarke touches her face and Lexa softens. “Most of it isn't my blood, Lex.”

“Are you hurt _anywhere_?” Lexa probes.

“A few bruises, I suspect,” Clarke says, twisting her neck, which does pain her now that the adrenaline has worn off. “And there's this cut on my arm, but nothing major. Ontari is definitely worse off.”

Lexa darkens. “Is she alive?”

Clarke pauses for a beat. “I don't think so.”

“Good,” Lexa spits. “She deserves to die.”

Clarke thinks of Ontari’s ominous statements about Lexa, and then admits carefully, "She’s Costia's sister."

"What?" Lexa asks softly.

"Ontari was Costia's sister," Clarke clarifies. 

Lexa's face scrunches up in confusion. "That can't be possible..." she mutters.

Clarke shrugs. "From what I heard, I think it's true. You should look into it." 

"And so, what-- that's why Ontari hated you?" 

"I think she was more upset about her job," Clarke says. "I mean she wasn't thrilled about me breaking you and Costia up, but I got the feeling she was really upset about her job. She... enjoyed it from what I gathered."

Lexa sighs. "She was good at it. The nasty parts, I mean."

"Yeah, well... I think she had like a-- like a history. Of murdering people, probably," Clarke deadpans. "It's why she had to fake her records to get a job with you."

"Jesus Christ," Lexa sighs, going white(r-- if possible). "If this gets out, the company is done for." 

"Well, I won't tell anyone. By the way, what exactly is your company? And where did you get this gun?” Clarke questions, hesitantly touching the sleek, brutal-looking metal. "It's sort of scary looking."

Lexa yanks it away from her. “We're a security consulting firm. It's company property.”

“And what exactly does ‘security consulting’ mean?” Clarke retorts.

“It sometimes means protection of the physical kind,” Lexa replies, tapping her gun distractedly. "We protect politicians, mostly.”

Clarke nods. She makes a note to investigate that further, but not now. Right now, she falls forward to hug the other girl. They spend a long, long moment melded together like that.

“ClarkinLarkin is intact and Evil O is down,” Lexa says quickly into her shoulder talkie. There is a reply, but neither of them listen.

“Clarke,” she finally chokes out, tears in her eyes threatening to overflow. “I thought I was going to be too late. I thought… I thought...”

“I'm alive, Lexa,” Clarke replies steadily. 

“ _How_? She kills so easily…”

“Weirdly enough, that Brazilian Jitsu you taught me finally came in handy.”

Lexa makes a short laughing sound, which erupts into a sob as she buries her wet face in Clarke's soft hair.

And then, there are police sirens.

 

“I'm fine! Guys, come on,” Clarke mutters petulantly.

Octavia smoothes out the sheet and says, “Are you sure you don't want another pillow because you don't quite look comfortable--”

“ _Octavia_. Have I ever needed more than three pillows? Am I going to start now?”

“Clarke Abigail, she’s worried!” Abby reprimands, the lines around her mouth standing out in displeasure. “You were kidnapped for god sakes! While already injured! You have bruises around your throat and a gaping wound on your arm. _Let us fuss over you_.”

“You've been fussing for two hours!" Clarke cries. "I promise I'm fine, mom. I may need some time to myself to process what all just happened to me, but I'm not going to disappear or anything. I love you all. I appreciate you ganging up to come to save me-- even though Raven nearly killed Wells-- but I'm saved now. So...”

“You saved yourself, you know,” Raven drawls, standing from where she had been sitting on Clarke's bed. “Sorry for technically causing this little situation-- and also almost killing Wells, I guess-- but I didn't know she was _insane_. But now that all this comes out, you know, I think Costia was the one that mentioned something about setting you two up. I blame pregnancy brain," she sighs sadly. "But you were completely badass. I'm proud of you.”

"I forgive you for the tenth time and thanks," Clarke replies dryly.

“I'm proud of you, too,” Abby adds.

“Me three,” Octavia joins in. “I'm going to actually cry.” Clarke widens her eyes at that; Octavia never cries. “You were so brave.”

Clarke has complicated feelings on the subject of her bravery-- which had really just been luck and the urge to survive-- so she smiles neutrally while a hint of a dark storm cloud swells over her. She's killed, and she can't forget. They seem to get the message and give her either a hug and kiss and then file out, which allows Wells, who is floating in the back, to drift forward. Wells and Clarke stare at each other before abruptly cracking up into laughter. 

“I'm very sorry for all this ridiculous craziness on your impromptu vacation,” Clarke declares after she catches her breath.

“Don't worry about it. But my flight does technically leave in three hours,” Wells replies. “Do you want me to cancel it-- stay?” 

“No,” Clarke replies, confident. “You should go back. The clinic really needs you.”

“You really seem to need me,” Wells counters.

Lexa, interested, watches their interaction from the door frame. When the kettle starts whistling a second later, she leaves to get it.

“Listen, Wells, you're one of my _best_ friends," Clarke mutters. "I honestly don't think I could have got through the last week without you, but you can't put your life on hold for mine anymore. Go back to California. Be happy. Heal people. I'll be fine here. Ontari's... dead, so… hopefully no more kidnappings are in my immediate future for the moment.”

Wells nods haltingly. “I loved seeing you, Clarke, even if it was a rollercoaster week.”

“I’ll miss you and sorry for the bullshit,” Clarke says simply. She holds her arms out from the bed, which she has been instructed she can't leave for at least twenty four hours due to trauma, and Wells bends forward into them. “You better call me at least twice a month," Clarke adds, strangely emotional, into his shoulder. "Probably more. Probably four times a month. I mean we might be living on opposite ends of the country, but I want to know your life.”

“I will,” Wells replies, his voice surprisingly shaky. “I will call, Clarke.”

Wells looks like if he doesn't leave, he never will, so Clarke sighs in relief when he finally ambles out of the room and she is alone for a moment, which means she can actually think.

The police had questioned her (and Lexa) for an hour, but eventually let her go.

Meanwhile, the employees at Lexa's firm had found Ontari's real identity; her real name is Alie Becca. She is, indeed, a convicted killed; she had lived as a child in a mental asylum for killing her own father, but had managed upon her twentieth birthday to convince some seedy judge that she's rehabilitated. Lexa's firm (and the police) is also working on tracking Costia down, although by all accounts, it seems she had already managed to flee the country. Her records had come back clean, but she had also been encouraging her insane sister in an attempted murder, so she would still be on the hook for a few charges.

A sort of darkness, a fog, fills Clarke as she thinks about it. She hadn't wanted to kill Ontari, she reasons. It had been literally life or death.

But she had killed Ontari like it had been simple, and maybe the most surprising thing is that it is in the moment.

Her life; Ontari's death.

Clarke turns into her pillow, closing her exhausted eyes, and tries not to think of death or blood or Ontari's cold body.

 

“Lexa,” Abby says, cornering her in the kitchen after everyone's left. “Thank you.”

Lexa, holding a tea kettle, just shrugs. They're not exactly on cordial grounds at the moment, but they never have been either.

“Really. Thank you for saving my little girl.”

“I didn't do much. She saved herself, Abby.”

“Yes. But... but I was wrong about you. To be scared of your influence on Clarke,” Abby murmurs. “Jake told me too many times to ease up because you were a genuinely good kid. I should have listened while I had the chance. You are good-- and you're right. It was never your fault that Clarke left. I should have never even said that. It was cruel. I think all this time… I was really so scared it was my fault.”

There are so many things Lexa could say, most of which would begin with curses, but instead she replies gently, “It was nobody's fault she left. It was just… something that happened. A reaction to trauma. But, well, that chapter's over now.”

Abby pulls her into a deep hug. 

Lexa always imagined any kind of touching on their part would lead to extreme violence, but after a beat she relaxes enough to hug her back.

 

“Everyone's left and I have your tea,” Lexa says, the scent of jasmine entering the room with her. She's switched the SWAT camo out for more casual attire of slacks and a tight polo. "And I finally found my jacket... crumpled up behind the couch. You can definitely keep it now."

Clarke’s eyes open and she laughs lightly. "I'm sorry about that..."

Lexa waves her off like it's nothing.

She sighs in content. “I love you,” Clarke says automatically.

Lexa smiles and hands her the tea. “I love you, too,” she murmurs coyly.

Clarke thanks her wordlessly and sets it on her bedside table, waiting for it to cool. “You know I mean it, right? I still think it's insane and all, but after everything that's happened… maybe what's most insane is not telling you. When I thought Ontari was going to… kill me, all I could think about was you. I don't want to leave the world without loving you for a long time, Lexa.”

“That's funny, Clarke ” Lexa remarks, reclining on the bed and wrapping an arm around Clarke. “Because I feel the same.”

Clarke grins at her, and Lexa gets lost in observing all the little details of her face-- the blindingly white teeth, smeared eyeliner, soft blonde waves framing her skin.

“Are you going to ever explain about your company?" Clarke drawls, watching her.

“What do you want to know?” Lexa asks carefully.

"Ontari told me... she told me things about you. I don't know if they are true or not." 

Lexa raises an eyebrow in question.

“She said you've killed people-- that you would kill her for taking me. She said that you were ruthless and I was an ignorant little blonde to it all,” Clarke elaborates, speaking so quickly that she ends breathless.

“I have killed people, Clarke, in protection of others. It comes with the firm,” Lexa admits.

“But… legally?”

“Of course. We fully work with the police. The ones I've killed… they were bad people-- mostly snipers, assassins, and bombers.”

“Okay,” Clarke replies. “Thanks for telling me.”

Lexa's face turns worried. “Does that bother you?” she questions.

“No… it doesn't. Should it? I don't know.”

“I don't want to make you uncomfortable. If it bothers you, I can… I can leave now.”

“God, no. Fuck that,” Clarke says, grabbing onto her hand. “You're never leaving again.”

Lexa’s eyes widen as she stares at the fingers interweaving through each other. “When I thought I was going to lose you...” she starts, paling as she inhales. “Everything just stopped and I didn't… I still don't feel like I deserve you, but I couldn't function. I was sad and angry and I couldn't stand the thought of you being taken away from me again, and by Ontari-- or Alie or whatever-- of all people. The rage felt like it was going to swallow me whole...”

“But I came back,” Clarke whispers. “I always come back to you when I'm able to, Lexa.” There's a comfortable silence until she adds, “We’re not the same people we were when we were sixteen, we're older and complicated, but... the whole question of this thing since I got back is not if you deserve me. It's been if I deserve you. Because after what I did, running away from my dad’s death to spend five years in California thinking you cheated on me without bothering to ask you about anything... I don't think I deserve you either. But if you want me, if you want this as much as I do...”

“I want this,” Lexa assures. She uses her other hand to tilt Clarke’s head up, so hopefully this next bit sinks directly into her. “Bad things happen, they'll always happen, and you made mistakes and so did I, but... we do deserve happiness. With each other.”

“I want you. I want you every damn day.”

Lexa searches her eyes and almost looks insecure before she grins widely, unrestrained (reverent), and leans into Clarke's lips. They kiss for a long moment, which leads to shirts being gently stripped off and warm hands tracing Clarke’s collarbones.

The night darkens. They drift inbetween kissing each other like their mouths are disguised as oxygen tanks and relearning each other’s bodies. It's different from their earlier lovemaking-- more desperate, more raw and honest as they’re finally both able to let go of the majority of their anxiety and guilt. 

Almost dying will do that to a person.

 

“I'll be here in the morning if you want,” Lexa murmurs sometime later when they're barely conscious and she's rubbing Clarke's thigh lazily, lovingly reveling in the fact that only she can touch her so casually intimate.

Clarke rolls into her hand, suddenly needing to get closer, so much closer. “Stay. Stay the night,” she replies without hesitation. “You might as well stay for the rest of your life.”

 

**One Month Later**

“Are you ready?” Lexa asks softly, turning anxious eyes to Clarke, who only nods.

They're sitting in Clarke’s Honda in the graveyard. Clarke's never been here, but she can see her father's grave from the car. 

There are so many pinpoints of color--immense amounts of multi-colored flowers and actual pinwheels-- strewn out on the grave. She's brought her own offering; a pot of bright purple African violets sitting on her lap. She hopes they’ll be enough, but enough of what exactly she isn't sure. Clarke watches Marcus’ car pull up behind them and she moves to put her hand on the driver's seat handle.

“He’ll be so happy to see you,” Lexa murmurs.

Clarke shoots her a look of gratitude-- of immense, knowing appreciation. Lexa's mentioned she's visited him before. Clarke appreciates that from the deep, emotional gut of her heart. In her absence, he hadn't been alone. She may have missed the anniversary of the day her father died, strictly due to all the commotion the kidnapping had caused, but she would never miss this actual moment.

Eyes on the grave, she gets out of the car slowly.

 

“Here lies Jake Griffin. January 13th, 1965- June 2nd, 2011. Beloved husband, father, engineer. He continues to be loved and missed,” Clarke reads silently, eyes scanning the well-kept grave. She looks down, realizing she’s standing on his body or what remains after decomposing for five years, and pulls Lexa and herself to the sidelines. His grave is really immaculately kept; not a speck of dirt, has the greenest grass, and bouquets of flowers adorn it. Clarke bends to add her meager offer of potted African violets.

When she closes her eyes, she can almost feel him here. She can almost feel him forgiving her for leaving her mom and fucking everything up. There's a final sort of peace floating around when Clarke opens her eyes.

Abby and Marcus decide to take a walk and Lexa backs up, giving Clarke some space.

Clarke is dragged violently into the past; she thinks about the crash, the call, her mom, leaving an empty apartment. Her dad’s death, very much like Lexa, is entangled into everything else that has happened. 

She can't help but remember the last time she spoke to him alive.

 

_”Dad?!”_

_Jake’s faint reply of “What, sweetheart?” can be heard from the garage. Clarke follows the sound down the hallway and out the door._

_“Where's mom?” she asks as soon as she catches sight of his messy blonde hair_

_Jake’s standing elbow deep in the engine of his car. “She's working.”_

_“Of course,” Clarke huffs irritably, crossing her arms._

_“What do you need, baby?”_

_“I wanted to_ talk _to her about what she said to Lexa yesterday...”_

_Jake sighs. “Uh oh. This broken radiator is easier to fix than you two at the moment.”_

_“I love her and all, but she’s just nasty sometimes. She freaked out again. At Lexa, who is so sweet and does_ absolutely nothing _to warrant this unfair treatment…”_

_“Your mom mentioned something about Lexie having a temper, sweetie.”_

_“Oh, bullshit. When we were sixteen, maybe, Lexa_ could be _... unpredictable, dad. But she's older now, been to therapy and she's a completely different person. Do you even know what happened? Well, she barged into_ my apartment _and walked in on us um…_ cuddling _… and freaked out. She yelled at me that she couldn't even believe I was graduating college with my work ethic and said a bunch of offensive things to Lexa. What the heck is_ her problem _?”_

_“She didn't have the chance to tell me all that before work, but I'll talk to her, okay? You're right. You're older now and that isn’t acceptable. Come give me a hug, baby,” Jake insists._

_Clarke bounces into her father's arms, inhaling his (sort of disgusting) scent and breathing in the stench of a home she once knew, but had been working on moving on from, and smiles._

_“Hey-- you need any money?” he asks._

_“Nah. Mom left some after yelling. But thanks for being the cool parent.”_

_“I may be the cool mom,” Jake replies, pulling away to cast an exasperated glance at the grease-covered scene in front of them, “but I have no idea how to fix this goddamn jeep.”_

_Their laughter rings through the garage._

 

But not being able to fix the Jeep isn’t what kills him.

“Dad,” Clarke says, bending to touch the grave. She bursts into a sob that she's barely been holding in. “It's been awhile, huh? I love you so much. You know that, obviously. That's never changed.” Clarke takes a deep breath to add, “I don't know if I believe in heaven... if I believe in anything but the here and now, but if you're still out there and listening, I hope you're at peace and you're happy, because I finally am, too. I've been holding onto a lot of hurt, grief, over the years, and I can't anymore. I've let you go, I've let all of the sadness over you drift away as best it can, but that doesn't mean I love you any less. By the way, I moved back to D.C., got all my friends back, got the girl, got... kidnapped, and then... well, I killed my kidnapper and escaped.”

Clarke stands. “That all sounds as traumatic as it was," she deadpans. "I'm definitely going to have to find a new therapist. It's been sort of a ridiculously crazy summer. Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would go this way when I came back here. And oh, Raven had her first kid! He's so adorable, you'd be seriously enamored.”

Clarke looks over her shoulder at Lexa, who is examining the ancient grave of a fallen soldier, and gets her attention with a smile, waving her over. When Lexa reaches her side, Clarke wraps a hand around her waist.

“He would like that we’re together. He always loved you, you know,” Clarke says.

“Well, someone had to balance out how your mom felt about me,” Lexa replies, smirking at Jake’s grave. “And I always loved him, too.”

Clarke inhales that sentence and the mid-summer air. Someone is mowing in the distance and there are families visiting their loved ones everywhere. She feels a sense of familial, universal really, love and unity so strong she can't help but hum along with it. 

“I think I said what I needed to,” Clarke says. 

They walk arm in arm to the car, but they only get to a few feet before the car, barely standing on grass that isn't also a grave to some pile of bones, before Clarke spots Raven hiding extremely poorly behind her beat up Honda-- then she sees the rest of everyone.

“What are they all doing here?” Clarke starts to ask, but then everyone shuffles out from behind the car. Clarke registers that they all have matching t-shirts on, even Abby and Marcus, who have walked back over and each pulled a t-shirt on over their somber professional wear. On every t-shirt is a pair of letters. Everyone is a weird mix of mismatched letters until they run around and shift, and the sentence becomes clear.

“Will you marry me?” Clarke reads.

When Clarke's eyes shift back to Lexa, she's on one knee on the ground beside her. 

“Oh my god,” Clarke breathes, mind blanking.

She had thought she would have years to wait until this moment happened. If it ever did. If it could.

“Hear me out,” Lexa says quickly, grabbing Clarke’s hand. “I know it's sort of horribly morbid to be proposing at a graveyard and it's rather insane to be proposing at all after a month of being back together, but this has all been crazy if we’re to be perfectly honest.”

“You're losing her! Get to the point,” Raven rudely yells. Anya elbows her in the side, but no one can quite restrain their chuckles. Lexa breaks to shoot Raven an exasperated smile before turning sharply back to Clarke. Abby and Clarke lock eyes for a second, Clarke being curious about her reaction to the latest shift of events, but Abby just smiles. It's surprising.

“Your family is my family and my family is yours,” Lexa says. “Even if they’re occasionally annoying, I love them all.” She glances again at Raven, who rolls her eyes but beams happily, and shifts back hurriedly to Clarke. Lexa had a carefully prepared speech but that’s all going out the window.

She's nervous as all get out and she's going to wing this.

“Look, Clarke,” Lexa sighs, trying not to squint in the sun, “You once told me that I deserve good things. But you do, too. I don't care if we're engaged for ten more years, I never want us to worry about this. I want this. I want you. For my wife. For life. Forever. And I don't want you to ever question that.”

Lexa takes a deep breath and fishes an old box out of her pocket. “This may upset you, but I was going to propose at your graduation party.” Clarke covers her mouth in shock, nearly tearing up, but Lexa, watching her carefully, perseveres through her reaction. “Your dad knew that," she adds. "He gave me his blessing and told me not to breathe a word of it to your mom or I'd never make it to the proposal.” 

Everyone laughs, and Clarke even giggles-- though semi-hysterically-- behind shaking, sweaty hands she lowers from her face.

“The reason I'm doing it here is so that he can watch,” Lexa reasons, glancing behind them at his grave. “After all, he was very excited about it. I don't want him to miss what is hopefully the only marriage proposal to his only daughter.”

A translucent tear rolls down Clarke's cheek.

“Clarke Griffin, will you do me the honoring of marrying me?” Lexa asks.

There's a moment of silence. Clarke’s eyes flicker from her father's grave to Lexa to her family, who are all waiting in anticipation.

But Clarke can barely comprehend what's happening. So much has happened this summer-- and now there's more to learn. 

Lexa Greenwood had been about to propose to her at her graduation party. On the night her dad had died. On the night she had decided to leave.

And five years later, Lexa still wants to.

Clarke drops to her own knees, which maybe isn't the expected reaction but is an entirely honest one, and breathes, “Yes.”

Yes to good things.

Yes to happiness.

Yes to Lexa.

Lexa’s face beams, radiant and lovely, and Clarke leans into her. Lexa slides the ring on her finger and it still fits, it actually fits. Clarke, aware all members of her immediate family are watching and not caring one bit, surges forward to kiss her excitedly.

And then all Clarke can hear is cheering.


End file.
